Babysat by Uncle Tony
by YvelissaBlossoM
Summary: Unisex reader-insert, post-movie-verse. You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?
1. Chapter One

**Babysat by Uncle Tony: **Chapter One

* * *

_**Summary**__: You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

**PAST**

* * *

You hold the surname of Stark ever since your mother had given birth to you.

The moment you stepped into school, you instantly turned into the most popular child yet. Teachers, school employees, (all) students, and even other people from other schools knew you and admired you, as, not only do you carry the name Stark, but, you're practically a genius, – even if you were still a child back then – also, very, _very_ attractive, and active in sports, as you are very good in a lot of activities.

You were nearly – no, you _are_ considered perfect.

People nicknamed you "A", which stands for all the _A_ pluses (and pluses and pluses) in your report cards, your _a_ttractiveness and for just '_a_ll', meaning everything perfect and flawless.

People probably took pictures of anything that's you. Just a mere touch of a finger from you, they would go wild. A simple eyes-locked gaze from you with someone, they would go crazy. They would basically die for anything that just came from _you_.

However, your personality made that all very useless, as you were rather proud, prideful, self-important, self-righteous, arrogant, stubborn, conceited, superior, overconfident, selfish, and self-seeking – it was all about _you_ and _you_ only.

But, you still had (what you consider a very large group of people hanging out with you just to be popular and well-known in school and other places, as they try their very best to disregard your horrid behaviour) 'friends'.

Until, at the age of ten, in your birthday party, wherein your house was chucked with so many invited and uninvited guests, you _finally_ met him.

Wearing large, dark shades and a very fancy-looking suit, he strutted into your home, with a kind-faced woman, whose face seemed to be over-freckled, hair red as the leaves during the fall season and big, green apple eyes, which really does remind you of autumn.

Eventually, you found out your parents (mostly, your father, who is actually a very close cousin of your uncle, had insisted) had invited him over.

Instantly, gasps, shrieks of glee and surprise were heard as people crowded around your uncle, begging for autographs, pictures, and mainly anything that purely came from _him_.

You were excited, superbly glad to see your uncle for the very first time personally – you've seen him mostly in television or in the radio.

But, that excitement vanished instantaneously when the center of the party (which is supposed to be you) was him, your uncle.

No one gave you any notice, even the tiniest bit. You tried to get some, but, only your parents listened of you. You basically were at the corner, watching your guests try their very best to at least take a picture of him or talk to him or, just anything.

Also, you never felt rudely treated – besides the back talks of your friends that you knew so well.

When you had called over a 'friend', they'd only stare at you in disgust and look away – like what you do to your other classmates.

When you had waved at a 'friend', they'd disregard you – like what you do to bystanders.

When you had approached someone, they'd move away to avoid you – like what you do to when strangers, who are actually your schoolmates, try to stand beside you.

And, then, you realized your mistakes, how you act toward people. It was all coming back to you.

Especially your uncle's personality: a total show-off, a jerk, a pain in the ass – an asshole, for that matter, egotistical, self-absorbed – so full of himself! Oh, and even though you were merely ten years old, you very well understood those words.

He didn't even greet you at least a simple 'happy birthday' when he arrived.

He didn't even say his farewell when he left (except for your parents, he said his goodbyes to them).

He practically didn't even notice you, acknowledged your presence, or maybe even, ignored you.

He didn't even give you a _present_.

What kind of person goes to a birthday party without giving the birthday kid a gift, anyway?

And the worst part was you couldn't help but compare yourself to him, and you knew that you and him were both similar – the same name, the same attractiveness, the same intelligence, just everything the same (except for your age, of course and other certain things).

Besides that over-freckled girl, who said she was his 'P.A.' (which probably stands for something like _P_roblem _A_ssociate for your uncle's 'needs'). Moreover your parents, she was the only . . . _real_ person, who _really_ did recognize you. She greeted you, smiled at you, talked to you, and gave you a gift, even if the card said '_from Tony Stark & Pepper Potts_' in elegant writing, you knew it came from her, and not from your uncle.

And after she left, you felt guilty and ashamed, as you have treated her badly – ignoring her and not paying much attention to what she says – yet, she acted nice, kind and friendly. You did feel bad, and wanted to make it up to her, which you did when they – er, _she_ (your uncle didn't come) went to your next party.

Ever since that, you decided to change, to become someone better. Even if you hold, until this day, his surname, you will never be like him, ever, _ever_, again.

* * *

By the time school came, you were a new person.

You changed your personality – from those haughty traits to nice characteristics.

Still, you were rather mean towards your 'friends', as you know they only hung out with you due to your popularity, and not you for being you.

So, you searched for _real_ friends – the kind that likes you for you.

And, eventually, you found them – not instantly though, it took time.

However, the teachers (and maybe even your parents) didn't need to worry about the change, as your grades were nonetheless straight A pluses (and pluses and pluses), but, they were glad for the much better behaviour.

And so were you, seeing that you were finally living the _real_ life.

Though, people really won't stop respecting the Stark name.

* * *

"Do you like your uncle, A?" a good friend of yours had asked as you ate lunch with them.

Oh, and yes, you had kept the nickname, you like it anyhow.

You scoffed, and looked up, thought for a second before replying a straight, "No."

"So, you dislike him?" another chimed in.

"No." You replied simply.

"Then, what?" both asked simultaneously.

"I loathe him," and you meant every word.

Luckily, they didn't need to ask why, as they already knew the reason.

* * *

You were turning twelve in a few weeks when he had announced he was this 'Iron Man' in television.

You scoffed – him being full of himself once more.

"That self-centred bastard can't shut his mouth," your father had commented playfully, with the hint of pride, which made your mother scold him for saying profanity in front of you.

You barely cared anyway.

You agreed to him seriously: _that self-centred bastard can't shut his mouth_.

* * *

You were thirteen when the news spread about him providing 'peace' throughout the Earth, after he defeated that Russian guy, whose name began with Ivan, then, Vanko? Van Cow? Oh, and, also, the Hammer company – what was the CEO's name? He seemed to have the name of Justin Bieber. And really just Hammer as his surname. You just weren't sure, but, you didn't care anyway.

You watched when Senator Stern had given him a medal for his bravery with a small pin (which seemed to have hit his skin, as you saw him grimace ever so slightly; _he deserved that_, you had thought), also, that other black guy, who seemed to be his best pal.

You didn't know and you barely cared.

* * *

You were nearly fifteen when the news about that 'Avengers' group, which is composed of your uncle and other 'superheroes', swelled like wildfire.

The destruction in New York City was purely blamed at them, of course, and you had to agree – seriously, look at your house! The place you once considered your humble abode – home! It's squashed into a . . . a . . . vegetable or something. It just looks horrible! Now, you're going to have to live in an apartment, if ever there are still available and undamaged ones.

However, you couldn't help, but feel the tiniest hint of gratitude towards them.

Well, they did save the world. So, yeah, gratitude is natural.

Though, the thing that really bothered you was the fact that you were grateful for your uncle.

* * *

**PRESENT**

* * *

Tony bends down slightly and gawks at his creation in absorption and pride: an azure-glowing pyramid, thin as a piece of paper, small as the loop in your mother's wedding ring; it hang tight and protected in the center of a sphere, which is hovering above its cube projector.

It's actually a substitute power source of his Arc Reactor, the cause why he is still breathing, staring at his beautiful making and why the Iron Man armor suit is working and living until now.

Even if it seems to be _just_ a power source, it isn't a _simple _one for it is powerful, _very_ powerful, much more enhanced than the one he has now, however, he still considers it as a substitute (and he cannot bring himself to use such a beautiful thing); also, it is really useful, and extremely valuable, because, not only will it help Tony and the Iron Man suit walk and run, it can provide power to anything, meaning, utterly _anything_. It is dangerous to be given to the wrong hands – not that Tony has the wrong hands (or maybe, he has?) – because anyone could just do everything with this, that it needs to be protected.

The transparent sphere, where his magnificent creation stands, has the best protection he could ever give and produce. It cannot be unlocked by simply typing a password (though, it does have one), it needs a DNA scan, eye scan, fingerprint scan, all scans you can ever think of – but, only the one ever allowed to open it is its creator, of course, and it's very evident who that creator is – and other more, which cannot be enumerated as it is considered as classified information.

If someone has tried to unlock it, instantly, he or she will be dropped down to an unbreakable glass a few feet below his workshop, and when he finds that a spot on the floor is open, by the press of a button, the man will return above ground, however, still trapped in the glass, to see who did it and punishment shall be considered.

How he loves what he does.

* * *

You, currently seventeen, close the car door of the back seat as you take your spot, which is behind the passenger seat, beside the window, while your parents settled in theirs; your father on the driver's place; your mother on the one in front of you.

"Ready?" Your father asks once he shut the door tight and locked all the others.

"Definitely," your mother replies, gladly.

"Hm," was your reply.

But, your father takes it as a yes anyway, and in a matter of minutes, the engine finally roared to life and you and your family are on the road, approaching your uncle's home.

_Giddy_, you think sarcastically.

After a few minutes of travelling, which you still are doing, and since your mother cannot handle the silence, she starts a conversation: "Are you excited, sweetie?" she asks you.

Even if you actually know what your mother means, you still ask, "About what?"

"Meeting your uncle, of course," she replies, as though it was completely evident.

You snort, of course not. Has it not been evident for all these years?

"No," you reply.

You could probably hear your mother frown as she asks, "Why not?"

You scoff, "Mom, you know why,"

You heard your mother sigh, "Well, don't worry, honey," she assures you, "it's only for two weeks, right? Though, if you want, you could come with us."

Your mother just can't drop that subject, can she? She wants to bring you along with them to L.A. (honestly, though, you don't understand why, of all places, they chose that, it's on the freaking other side of the country) ever since you told them to have a two-week vacation on a place they like, for them to have a break from work and from you, but, you insisted not to, it's only for two of them, anyway. You want them to have some fun, (and a new sibling, if possible); meanwhile, your father doesn't really mind if you come or not, he's practically fine with both as long as you're placed in the hands of trusted people – assuming your uncle is a trustworthy man, which he isn't, of course.

"I told you before, mom, no." You reply.

So, she finally gave in. "Well, then, if not, you are to be babysat, alright?" she asks rhetorically, "We've already talked about this." She adds.

Oh my god, you are not a _baby_, as you told her previously and now, you are freaking seventeen years old, for Pete's sake.

"I'm seventeen, mother, for the love of . . . ," you mutter, as your voice trails off a bit, "I can take care of myself."

But, your mother, who took your father in her side, persisted. She must have casted a stern glance towards him, because, he suddenly chimes in, "And you're still a child," he states, "Your uncle is the nearest one from our house, and frankly, the best one to supply your needs for two weeks,"

Once this idea was suggested before, you instantly rebelled. Your mother implied about joining with them again, you refused right away, then, of course, the 'no alternative' lecture was said, after that, you finally agreed, though, not immediately, it took a long time for you to do so.

You sigh, "I know," you murmur.

"Besides, Aunt Pepper might be there," your mother adds, "I called her a few moments ago before we left."

Well, that cheers you up. Aunt Pepper is always better than Uncle Tony. She's constantly there at every celebration Uncle Tony was supposed to be invited in, bringing along gifts and pride, even if she isn't really blood-related, you consider her as part of the family.

"Yeah," you smile; remembering your favourite aunt, happily.

You notice a rather large, but, thin shadow looming over your family's vehicle. Due to curiosity, you look up through the window to see that you're already on the long path, lined by tall trees you aren't sure what kind that snakes up towards your uncle's home. You peek between them, only to see plain, trimmed grass ahead.

You look at the other side to find the circular, smooth concrete, where, in its middle, a light, gray _H_ is implanted on it, which is usually the place where helicopters land, which is, also, a sign that you're getting closer.

So, you look straight ahead, and your uncle's house finally walks into view.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of amazement. A painted white, very large, and wide, built cement and glass, two-story (who knows there's actually something below that?) house – god, is that even a _house_? – that stands on the side of a cliff, which is why you can hear the loud, crashing waves, as they collide against the rocks who knows how many feet below.

And in just a matter of minutes, once you heard the annoying sound of water being spewed high, you know you're there.

Your family vehicle enters the wide, circular driveway, lined by the dancing, falling, spewing water, and trees behind them, where, in its center, plants, that aren't bothered being trimmed, as it seems to add some style with your uncle's abode, are placed.

And before you knew it, the car halts instantly, signalling your arrival at this magnificent house.

You inhale air to calm yourself; you haven't noticed how anxious you are to meet him until now.

Holding your bag, you open the car door and step on the smooth pavement.

You look up at your uncle's home, its vast shadow casting over you, and your family, including the vehicle.

Leaving the car alive for a moment, both of your parents step out of it, and approached you.

Your mother wraps her arms around you as an embrace, "I'm going to miss you, sweetheart, I really will." She whispers in your ear as her chin rests softly on your shoulder.

You embrace her back; your nose touching her shoulder due to how tall she is than you (soon, you'll be taller, just wait) – it is rather odd for a seventeen year old to be shorter than his or her own mother, you don't why you are petite, even though you are fit, you have regretfully assumed that you've gotten your uncle's height too. "Me too, mom," you reply.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you more,"

You feel her smile at your response. She, then, unwrap her arms, as she stands in front of you, wiping a tear from the edge of her eye.

"Oh, mom, don't cry," you slouch your shoulders.

She chuckles, "What are you talking about?" She takes a handkerchief from the pocket of her gray, pencil skirt, and uses it to bat on each edge of her eyes, "I am simply sweating through my eyes."

You let out a small laugh, "Yes, of course," you say sarcastically.

"I'll see you after two weeks, pal." Your father pops behind your mother, carrying your black luggage of clothing.

You smile, "Yeah, Dad, see you,"

Your father hands you the luggage, which you take, after giving you a small hug.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, but, we need to go." Your mother says, sadly.

"I know, mom, you have a flight in a mere hour – and the airport is far from here, blah, blah, blah." You wave your hand dismissively

Your mother's smiles tugs into a smile, "Are you sure?"

You nod. "Totally,"

Your father pats you softly at the back, "That's my kiddo!" he grins.

You smile.

Both of your parents bid their farewells one last time, once they stepped back inside the vehicle: "Do say our regards to Edward!" your father shouted through the window, grinning mischievously; _who's Edward? _You think to yourself, waving back at them, _Edward Cullen?_

Then, they left, just like that, you alone in front of the horror you'll be soon facing.

You exhale, as though throwing out your anxiety, as you approach the dwelling, climbing the stairs to the porch, and stepping in front of the vast, mahogany door.

* * *

So, here, he is, nearly crouching to the height of the table on where it stands, so elegantly and peacefully, appreciating its magnificent sight.

Tony continues to praise himself on his beautiful work mentally, breathing in the spectacle before him. So grand, so glorious, so marvellous, so–

_Ding Dong!_

He grits his teeth at the sudden disturbance of his awe-inspiring moment.

"Pep–" he's about to shout the name of his beloved – personal assistant, rather, when he remembers she's in Washington, having a meeting with other CEOs of other companies, gone for two whole weeks. God, why did he have to promote her?

He sighs, as he stands straight.

"JARVIS!" he called out his artificially intelligent computer, which god knows where it is.

"Onto it, sir," He says in his usual British accent, knowing very well what his creator meant.

As the computer is checking, Tony has already climbed the stairs up to main ground; of course, not forgetting to lock his workshop closed, and is now making his way towards the main door.

"Sir, it is your [niece/nephew]." JARVIS finally says.

Tony cocks an eyebrow, "Pardon?"

JARVIS repeats, "Your [niece/nephew],"

"I don't think I have a [niece/nephew], Jarvis." Tony says.

"Have you forgotten Miss Potts' phone call, sir?"

_Ding Dong!_

"Pepper?"

"Yes, sir, the CEO of Stark Industries, in case you have forgotten also–"

"I got that JARVIS." Tony cuts off, rudely, "She called?"

"Apparently, sir. As it is from her cellular phone into yours, but, I have answered it, and placed it in loud-speaker, which, have you forgotten, sir–?"

"I know what a phone call is, JARVIS." He interrupted once again, "Her call must've . . . just . . . slipped my mind."

_Ding Dong!_

"As you say, sir," JARVIS says, in monotone, mockingly.

"I'm going to replace you sooner or later, JARVIS." Tony threatened.

"I shall wait for that day."

Now, Tony couldn't help but smirk.

"She called to tell you, your [niece/nephew] will be arriving, sir, as you will babysit [her/him] for two weeks." JARVIS continues, as though nothing has happened.

Tony grunts, but, he remains silent.

His [niece/nephew], once again, rings the bell, causing Tony to wince slightly.

_God, hasn't this kid seen a doorbell before?_

* * *

You enjoy pressing the circular, golden, piece of metal that is a doorbell, which creates an echoing _ding dong _mostly in the house, but, can still be heard from where you are.

Of course you know what it is, you're not stupid.

You press it one last time, and you can audibly hear it ringing inside the house.

As you reach out for the little bell, you instantly bring back your arm down once you saw the door open, not so widely, but, wide enough to reveal your uncle.

You're quite surprised at his attire. He didn't wear the shades, and the formal suit. He merely wore a plain, dark navy shirt, with you suppose is made of thin material, as the faint, circular, blue glow of his arc reactor (which you've seen in television) is evident, and dark bottoms, with simple sneakers – you practically can't recognize the man you once saw years ago. And is that _grease _on his fingers, hands, arms and shirt? How he got that – you don't know.

All in all, though, his face is still the same (just without the sunglasses). He still has his stubble and goatee (you see it hasn't grown, which signifies that he doesn't intend to grow a beard at all), his thick eyebrows, moustache (well, you presume it's a moustache, what else would it be? It's above the mouth and below the nose, where a moustache should be), and the nearly-salt-and-pepper hair (he's getting old). While other characteristics, like his pointy nose, ears, and tanned skin are, also, the same and didn't really seem to have changed.

But, the most disturbing feature of all, the one that is so out of place with all his manly features and his badass, also, douche attitude, is his eyes; his brightly twinkling, hazel eyes. They quietly hide below his thick brows, its breathtaking beauty concealed and unknown to unobservant people.

"What?" Ah, yes, his voice – unforgettable and still is irritating as ever.

You decide to make fun of him. "Are you Edward?" you ask, tilting your head slightly at the side, showing genuine curiosity.

He appears to have been affronted. "Excuse me?"

"Are you Edward?" you repeat, adding feigned excitement.

"Who told you that?" he demanded.

You try not to grin. "My father," you reply honestly.

"Your father?" he cocks an eyebrow.

"Yeah – now, really, are you Edward?" you return to the subject at hand.

He doesn't reply; he seems to be having trouble whether to tell you or not.

"No, kid, I'm not," he lies. Of course you know it's a lie, it's rather evident.

You pretend to be upset as you frown sadly. "Aw," you groan, "But, do you know Edward?"

"I don't know any Edward, kid – there's no Edward any near this place or in this house – speaking of this house, how did you get in here?" He looks around his driveway, searching for the answer, as though it merely stood there, somewhere in his front yard.

Though, he really does talk fast, and enjoys changing topics.

You can't help but remember yourself when you were a child.

But, you know that's over, and gone, away from you and your life forever.

As though it would push the thought away, you exhale silently.

"Are you sure you don't know Edward?" you ignore his question, as you deepen your frown.

"No – yes – no – I mean, yes, I _am_ sure."

He's switching answers, you know, though, you barely understand them, as they were spoken in quite a speed.

"But, Edward's popular, he's famous, he's handsome, he's smart, he's–" you continue to rant positive attributes about this 'Edward', moving around, jumping slightly, as though you're a little girl, dreamily thinking about your pretend crush, while you do your very best not to laugh, as your uncle seems to calm down with the compliments, thinking they're for him.

Then, just when he opens his mouth to admit it, you say it–

"He's a vampire!" You exclaim last of all.

He seems to really look rather offended.

Now, you couldn't control your laughter anymore. His face – oh goodness – his face – the look on his hairy face! _Priceless! _You think, as you clutch your stomach, laughing out loud. You close your eyes tight, as they begin turning wet at all your laughing.

Finally, after how many seconds or maybe even minutes, you calm down. You wipe your eyes, as a few drops has escaped from your eyelids' clutches, and let go of your stomach, looking back up at your uncle, who appears to not have moved throughout your cackles.

But the face. Oh, dear, god, it's still there.

You bite your lip, controlling your laughter. Once you have managed to rule over it, you breathe in and out, trying to get your normal pace of breathing.

"I am so sorry about that–" his face – no, you haven't restrained your cackles, "oh my god, wait, no, I am _not_ sorry at all!" You begin laughing again. "You should've seen your face! Dear god–"

After most likely a minute of laughing, you will yourself to relax. You look back up at him, feeling no longer amused.

"Are you done?" he asks.

"Yeah," you respond, breaking into a grin.

"Good. I got a few questions."

"I'd answer them for your sake," you grin wider.

"Hm," he hums, "Alright – so, you're my [niece/nephew]?"

"It is sad to say, but, yes," you reply.

He seems insulted. "Sad to say? Excuse you, kid–"

"I have a name," you cut in.

He disregards it. "–you ought to be proud you're wearing _my_ surname. There is rarely anyone who does."

You scoff, "Sure, I'm _really_ lucky." You say; your tone thick with sarcasm.

His eyes squint in suspicion at you. "Whatever, kid. You should still be proud."

You quietly mumble your 'whatever'.

"So, that means I'm your . . . uncle?" he seems to have a hard time saying that.

"No, Edward, you're my gay father." You reply, sarcastically.

"You enjoy being sarcastic." He comments.

You smile, "That's old news."

"It seems impossible for us to be blood-related." He says.

For the first time in your life, you agree to him. "I've said that to myself tons of times." You say.

"Who are your parents?" he asks.

"You mean, you don't know them?" you cock an eyebrow.

"I can't recognize anyone with your . . . appearance," he finally decides on the word.

You smile, "Yeah, I don't look like anyone at all, huh?"

He replies after half a second of silence with a nod, "Nope, none at all."

"Well, anyway, my parents are Mr. and Mrs. Stark," you reply, with a hint of mockery.

"My parents' names are Mr. and Mrs. Stark. Are we siblings then?" he says, joining in your joke.

"That's awful," you frown, as though someone has told you horrible news.

He stares at you, his (though, you won't admit it) adorable eyes piercing through you. But, you're not bothered anyway.

"Who're your parents?" he asks once again.

And this time, you reply much more seriously than before.

He nods, before another question pops up, "Anyway, what's your name, kid?" he inquires, although, it's rather apparent that he doesn't give a crap about what your name is.

But, you reply your name anyway, though; you have a hard time saying your surname.

"Got any nicknames? Your name's long." He says.

Dear god, he practically didn't even listen to your name or you for that matter, at all.

You sigh, and after whispering _lazy-ass_, you reply, "A."

He doesn't speak.

He looks at you expectantly.

Before he realizes you already spoke.

"Pardon?" he says, leaning ever so slightly closer to hear you.

"My nickname's A," You reply plainly, "A as in the letter _A_," you add, knowing what a monkey brain he is.

He knits his brows, considering your name or you even.

Then, his brows return to their proper places.

He seems to have made his verdict.

"Alright, kid–"

"I told you, I have a name–"

"Doesn't matter, it's still kid–"

"But, I'm not a kid–!"

"Whatever, kid; how old are you–?"

"I'm seventeen, for the love of–!"

"You see, kid, as long as you're below eighteen, you're not a legal adult yet–"

"Since when are you a legal adult–?"

"Ever since I turned eighteen, and I was already done at college back then. Now, kid, I made my decision–"

"Who cares about your decision? It won't change anything–"

"Oh, my decision affects everything, kiddo, believe it–"

"Wow, so, _now_, it's kiddo–"

"Yes, kiddo, it's kiddo–"

"But, I am not a kiddo nor am I a kid–!"

"I told you, as long as you are below eighteen, you're not a legal adult–"

"Oh, shut up, will you? You don't listen to anyone, and you don't even do legal stuff–"

"How can you say that, kid, when you haven't even met me–"

"Y-you don't remember?"

You couldn't actually believe it.

You expect it, of course, but, for some reason, it's hard to believe.

The tiniest spark of hope shines, as you wait for his reply.

"Remember what?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

That spark vanishes instantly.

He doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember the party, everything – _you_.

And the worst part is the fact that you feel hurt.

You remind yourself: _of course, he won't recall, it was like six years ago! Who would remember? Really? Especially him – of all people!_

"N-nothing," you mumble, looking down, as you swallow the lump on your throat, which you haven't notice until now.

He seems to have disregarded this, as he persists on speaking.

"Well, whatever, kid," he pauses, as though awaiting for your cut-off, but, you don't, you merely wait what he needs to say; seeing that you won't interrupt, he continues, "Anyway, I made my decision."

He pauses for dramatic affect (as I placed this sentence underneath that paragraph).

"Get inside."

* * *

**A/N:**

**EDIT [7/1/2012]: _Sorry, I needed to edit it, like changing your age into seventeen, and the exterior of Tony's house, also, JARVIS' name into capital letters. It's because, I'm rather factual when it comes to these kind of stories. Sorry. I hope you didn't mind reading it again._**

_**Thank you for your consideration. (:**_

**My very first reader-insert, **_**unisex**_** reader-insert **_**and**_** Avengers story. I don't know what to say. I probably just had too much fun writing this 18-paged first chapter that I've forgotten everything I needed and wanted to say in the Author's Notes.**

**Well, anyway, uh, I apologize for making you a bad character. It's necessary for the story, to show how much you hate Uncle Tony. But, don't worry; you're a good person now! :D Also, for the nickname **_**A **_**if you don't like that much.**

**Sorry if ever Tony is OOC or Out Of Character. Tony is not an easy character to write about or portray, I tell you. Robert Downey knows it better, and does it better. I tried my best on making him a real pain-in-the-butt, really sorry if it didn't work out well. Also, though, in the comics, Tony has blue eyes, but, in the movie, he has hazel or brown, but, since this is the movie-verse, I chose hazel/brown. w **

**Oh, and yeah, I know, in the Avengers, Pepper is supposed to be Tony's P.A. again, but, in this one, let's make it that she **_**is**_** still the CEO, huh? :D**

**In my other story, which is a Percy Jackson account (called **_**Impossible To Like You**_** – new readers, check it out if you're a PJO fan), don't worry my PJO readers, I will still continue it. (:**

**Speaking of continuing, I'm not sure if I can continue this one, because, if this doesn't get much reviews or readers, I might not. This idea has been roaming around my head since summer and I've wanted to do for such a long time. Plus, this really has a story line.**

**So, anyway, yeah, that's all.**

**Enjoy, Read, and Review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or you. Just the story.**


	2. Chapter Two

**Babysat by Uncle Tony: **Chapter Two

* * *

**Summary: **_You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

You practically don't believe it – again!

He told you to come inside . . . his house – his, Tony Stark's, house. Honestly, though, you couldn't care _less_ about whose house this is! You care about its beauty, its architecture, its uniqueness! You're going to live – no, wait, not in a house, but, a mansion – a, _friggin_, mansion. It's like you won a lottery ticket – but, better!

And you just stand there, staring at him, confused and surprised, the hurtful moment a minute ago gone.

"What?" you say _intellectually_.

"Get inside," he repeats.

You blink rapidly. "Y-you're serious?"

"No, kid, I'm kidding. Stay out there and enjoy your life." He says sarcastically.

"That's what I expected." You say, "Why do you want me inside?"

"You don't need to know," he replies, "Now, just get your ass inside this house, kid. Don't make me change my mind."

You don't respond, but, you comply. Your uncle steps aside, pushing the door much widely for you to enter; as you grab your luggage, hold onto your messenger bag, before stepping inside your uncle's humble abode.

You gaze around in astonishment.

The interior is much, much, amazing than the exterior.

The ceilings, purely white, though, it's high in your height, you know it's at a good elevation, with small, circular holes, which you suppose are lights, as a golden beam seeps through them.

The floor, smooth and glassy, made of marble or (really, really, _really_, smooth) wood – not sure, as one part seems to be marble and the other seems to be wood, in different parts of the house, shining from the brightly lit lights, topped with such expensive, comfortable, beautiful furniture.

The walls are mostly made up of glass, while others seem to be cement, or concrete, or brick – you aren't sure, but it's white. You could clearly see the view from where you are now. The water – you aren't sure what body it could possibly be – bay, river, sea, ocean? You don't know, but, it stretches far and wide, twinkling brilliantly at the gaze of the sun, as you notice that the loud sound of crashing waves a few moments ago have soften, probably due to the extraordinary glass walls, covering most of the vibrations of the sound.

Words can't describe it all, but, you know, one word can only fit this place: ultramodern.

Though, what else to expect from _the_ Tony Stark?

For goodness' sake, the guy is working for the future of technology, of humanity.

"Welcome, [Miss/Sir] [name]," greets a monotonous, British voice you don't know where, as you jump up in surprise.

"What the hell was that?" you turn to your uncle, who has closed the door behind you, not bothering to help you with your luggage.

"That was JARVIS," He replies plainly, "an artificially intelligent computer I made, you wouldn't understand." He waves his hand at you, dismissively.

You're rather affronted by that statement.

Of course you know what that is, you aren't stupid.

"Excuse you, I do." You say, "I suppose JARVIS is an acronym?" you cock an eyebrow at him.

He looks at you with light surprise, "How do you know?" he asks.

"Every madman does that to most of the things they create," you shrug as though it's a general and obvious thought.

"Are you calling me a madman?" he's insulted, apparently. "You better watch your mouth, kid; I can change my mind any time."

You grin, "You know it's too late for that, right, Edward?"

He really doesn't like it when you call him that. "I'm your uncle, kid, show some respect."

You scoff, "Like you show respect."

He falls silent at this statement, which bothered you ever so slightly. Though, instantaneously, he gets over his soundless composure. "Choose a room upstairs, JARVIS will tell you which one is available."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," You wave your hand dismissively at him. "Where's Aunt Pepper?" you ask, recalling your favourite aunt.

"Seriously? You address her as your aunt, even if she isn't really related to you?" He says, staring at you, with a cocked eyebrow.

"Yeah," you plainly reply.

"And not me?"

"You want me to call you 'aunt'?" you ask, mockingly.

He stares; his eyes piercing once again through you. It still doesn't bother you. "She's not here, kid, as you can see," he gestures to the wide space around you and him (even though it actually has a lot of furnishings), which is considered as the first floor. "She went to Washington, has a few meetings with other companies," he states.

You frown; the tiniest blink of hope of not being alone with your uncle for two weeks sparks dimly, as you ask, looking around the place, as though searching for her, "For how long?"

"Two whole weeks," he replies.

_Damn_.

Your frown deepens, feeling really hopeless, as you mentally speak the truth: _I'm going to be alone with _him_ for two whole weeks, without my parents, and without Aunt Pepper. Survival chance: 0.00% _

You consider yourself doomed. You aren't exactly happy to be unaccompanied with your uncle, however, you aren't, actually, sad either – at least, you're going to live in this high-class home.

"Just remember, kid," the annoying voice of your uncle seemed to have amplified in your ear, as you look up only to notice that he's no longer with you (how can he walk that fast? Even quietly?). "Don't touch anything!"

You don't reply; you merely roll your eyes.

You stare around, and sigh, "How can I survive in this jungle?"

"Would you like some help, [Miss/Sir] [name]?"

You jump in surprise, once again. That damn little artificially intelligent computer–

"Damn it, JARVIS!" you exclaim at wherever.

"I apologize, [Miss/Sir] [name], I did not intend to scare you," he says.

"Yeah, of course," you mutter, "I'm sure Edward told you to scare me again."

There's a short silence. "Shall we begin your search for your room?" JARVIS asks, seemingly changing the subject, which is a sign that Tony has told him to frighten you, but, you ignore it.

"Yeah, sure," you reply, lazily.

* * *

You spend the next few hours exploring your uncle's home. Most of it is already planted in your mind [with your rather high IQ, you can memorize things easily] – there's probably one kitchen in each floor, with two living rooms each, three bathrooms every level, four bedrooms each one, bars, dining rooms, et cetera [you counted too].

With so much time talking with JARVIS, you've told him to call you by your nickname. He was hesitant at first, but, you insisted, so, he agreed.

Also, you've found your room. It is absolute posh, an English gentleman would probably say.

The ceiling is the same as the whole mansion's – elevated well, with tiny holes with a golden ray you assume is light oozing from them. As well as the walls – white, glass, brick, cement, or concrete – you still aren't sure – the view of the sea, obvious, clear and visible as your eyes could see.

However, the flooring is as red as lively roses. The furniture – a bright crimson queen-sized bed placed at the center of the room, two elegant bedside tables, a polished, wooden study-slash-work desk accompanied by a black, leather, office chair with a yellow lamp on top, and a white door, which seem to have led to a walk-in closet that is filled with numerous unisex clothing, as JARVIS had told you.

It's available, JARVIS had said, and instantly, you took it, by immediately placing your things around the room, claiming it yours, as you sat there, on your bed, using your laptop all day, not bothering to do anything else, except maybe talking to JARVIS at certain times, which you enjoy, honestly; as he's very good company.

But there was one small chat that bothered you a bit, because of how quiet JARVIS was when you asked if ever he has friends. Though, he replied anyway, stating that your uncle, Aunt Pepper, a guy named Rhodey and some dude named Happy are the people he considers his friends.

Although, you wonder why you even bothered to ask – JARVIS is a computer, how can he have buddies? Logically, he has no feelings. But, right now, after so much time talking together, you actually felt he really was like a true person. So, you just nodded, as if he was merely in front of you.

And without your knowledge, the night comes.

You're still on your bed, doing what you usually do with your laptop, listening to music simultaneously.

"A," you hear JARVIS calls.

"Yes, JARV'?" you look up.

"Sir Stark has asked for your presence in the kitchen."

That's strange. That sentence just seems . . . _wrong_.

"Which kitchen?" you ask, as you settle your laptop on the bed, and begin to move towards the edge of the bed, swinging your feet to the floor, as you slip them into your sneakers.

"The first floor's," JARVIS replies plainly.

You stand up from your bed, stretching a bit before walking out of your room, closing the door behind you, and proceeding through the hallway.

As you walk, you begin to wonder why your uncle has called for you. Seriously, it's just weird. Even if you've been here for a few hours, and you haven't exactly bothered him (yet), you know very well enough that he doesn't really like you, with your first impression, which you are very proud of.

Then, the thought of what time it possibly be crosses your mind.

You decide to ask JARVIS, "Time, JARV'?"

"Seven thirty-five in the evening, A," he replies.

It isn't exactly surprising to know that you were in your room for that long. Even at home, you probably _live_ in your bedroom. You only go out when it's time to eat.

Maybe, that's why your uncle called for you, to eat.

_Why would he feed me anyway? _You wonder mentally.

That thought stays in your mind, as you descend down the steps towards the first floor.

He isn't exactly obliged to feed you. He can just not give you food. He already gave you a shelter to live in for two weeks, with an awesome room and all, which must have sacrificed a lot of his pride, and space. And _now_, he's going to supply you with food? Isn't his home and superiority enough for him to forgo? Is this some sort of trickery? Or is it possible he's concerned?

Before you could continue to think and answer to your own questions, you find yourself already in the kitchen, with white walls, a gray ceiling and white, marble floorings. Wooden cabinets on the wall, a black-and-silver refrigerator at the end of the lines of matching wooden counters, with black-polka-dotted, white tops, and a honey brown, expensive-looking stove somewhere between the counters. At the center of the room, there's another line of counters, though fully-white this time, but, used for eating, as there's a row of comfortable, hazel stools in front of them. It's strange that he has a dining room, but, he placed another one here.

Also, there are lots of pale boxes that reminded you of take-out Chinese food – _oh_.

You look up to see your uncle sitting on the first stool, eating noodles in another white box, using chopsticks.

He doesn't seem to have noticed you. He's enjoying himself too much.

"Uh . . ." Yes, a certainly _smart_ way on catching your multi-billionaire uncle's attention.

He looks up and sees you. "You hungry, kid?" He asks between chews.

He doesn't wait for a reply. "Well, I hope you like Chinese food. Didn't know what you really like, so I bought most of everything."

Chinese food? Well, you've eaten them before, and they _are _rather delicious. But, look how much money he spent to buy _most of everything_ just for you. Does he really care or is he playing?

"You could have just asked," you retort, approaching him slowly. "You don't need to spend this much."

He shrugs nonchalantly, "Just eat."

You sit one stool away from him; no, you do not want to sit _too_ close to him, it's already bad enough you live in the same roof he does – fortunately, for two weeks. Plus, he doesn't seem to actually care where you sit, as he continues to wolf down rations in a fast speed.

You scan the boxes, searching for familiar Chinese delicacies. But, all of them are closed, so, you can't actually know which ones which.

"That's [insert favourite Chinese food here]."

You spin your head at the source of the voice and discover that it actually belonged to your uncle, who's pointing at one box just in front of you with the chopsticks.

"How do you know?" you ask, suspicious of his actions.

"I opened it," he replies, still eating, as though it's obvious – which probably is.

You decide not to reply or say anything; however, you couldn't contain the eye roll.

You open the box to see that he's correct – it's one of your favourite Chinese dishes. But, how could he have known? Did he inquire someone? Did he read your mind – oh, stupid thought, impossible, never mind.

Still, you find it odd.

Is it him or is it just your mind, exaggerating? It's more likely your mind, but, you can't say; it could be him – he's _Tony Stark_, for Pete's sake. Anything's possible when it comes to the idiot you're blood-related to as your uncle.

Nevertheless, you take a pair of chopsticks, break it, before wolfing down the same – you haven't realized how hungry you are until now.

Most part of your dinner is complete silence – and you ate two boxes of your favourites.

It's surprising he's quiet, though. He usually talks a lot – or too much. Scratch the _or_, he talks a lot _and_ too much. The stillness is eerie that it's starting to get to you. Should you speak or should you remain silent? _Nah_.

But the silence really is beginning to bother you. The ringing in your ears is getting rather loud, that your ear is probably going to explode soon.

Then, a random thought comes out of nowhere while you eat your third box of Chinese food.

Maybe your uncle quietly proposed a game. A game of amusement wherein the first one to speak is the loser, the one who can't handle silences, the one who doesn't know how to shut up.

_Oooh_, you're not backing down – _especially _to your uncle.

So, the silence goes on.

You look up to the clock (luckily, it has the _AM_s and _PM_s) above the refrigerator momentarily – _7:37PM_. Three minutes? Three _fucking _minutes has just passed? It seems like you've been eating for _hours_.

Time really slows down when you're not having fun.

Curse time.

You're finished with the third one, and you wonder whether to eat another or stop, because you can feel your stomach inflate ever so slightly.

You subconsciously place a hand on your abdomen, as you scan the food.

Then, another random thought comes to your mind.

What if this isn't a game wherein the first to speak loses – what if, this game is a race? A race wherein you have to eat as many Chinese food boxes as you can? And one with a larger amount wins?

Yes . . . yes . . . that might be i–oh, you're thinking too much! You're just eating dinner with your uncle. That's all. That's ordinary . . . well, for a seventeen-year-old kid who has a self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist uncle, who's _also_ included in the Avengers, the Earth's Mightiest Heroes, assuming there's another child like that.

Yeah, right, totally _ordinary._

Oh, for the love of – _just eat_.

So, you just ate with eerie silence, and a loud mind.

"Which room did you pick?"

That question nearly made you jump in surprise – oh, and he lost the first game.

Damn your uncle for randomly throwing questions here and there. Honestly, though, that's just the first one. You should learn how to relax.

Nevertheless, you reply, "Second floor, second hallway, third door."

He's quiet for a moment, "Good."

"It surely is," you say, as though his statement was a question. "The room's awesome."

"You like it?"

"It's the perfect one, with a grand bed, a walk-in closet, a good view of the sea – and it's far from _your_ room!" You grin, taunting him.

He surprisingly nods in agreement, countering your taunt, "I know; which is good." He looks at you, "Though, I have to ask: how do you know where my room is?" he asks, still chewing.

You look back at your food, "I asked JARV'."

You hear coughing as if someone's choking (probably your uncle), though, you don't look up, "_JARV'_?"

"Yeah, _JARV_'," you shift your head up, knitting your eyebrows in confusion. He sounded offended, or maybe, just surprised.

"Are you," he coughs more, "good _pals_ with my computer?" he's facing you full-body now, with the stool twisted, and one arm on the counter.

"Well, yeah," you reply. "JARVIS is good company."

"He's an _artificially intelligent computer_," he stares at you, his dark eyes piercing through you once again – and it _still _doesn't bother you.

"So?" You deadpan.

"So, he doesn't have _friends_."

"Well, he said you were one of his friends," you recall.

That caught him off guard.

"What?" he gawks at you, dumbfounded.

You nod, "Yeah; he said you, Aunt Pepper, a guy called Rhodey and another named Happy."

He doesn't reply. His gaze moves slightly away, as though in deep thought – which he most likely is.

Now that Tony thinks about it, he, too, actually considers JARVIS as a friend. With so much time spent together (mostly talking of course), and how long it has been, yes, JARVIS is no longer a computer to Tony, he _is_ more of a friend. But, seriously, does _Happy _have to be included? Rhodey and Pepper's fine – he's used to them. But, _Happy_? Is JARVIS _fucking_ kidding him?

Several minutes passed more, and both of you are done eating. Tony finished his seventh box, and you're done with your fifth – which means you lost the second game; hey, at least, you won the first one. Both of you are even; though, Tony doesn't seem to show any kind of sign that he _did_ propose games while you ate. Maybe it _is_ all in your mind.

You look up at the clock: _7:42PM_

All in all, you ate dinner in eight minutes, which you suppose is a bit quick.

"What are we gonna do with those?" you ask him, gesturing to the closed boxes, as you stand.

"Just place them in the fridge," he stated, as though it's evident. "And throw the empty ones in the trash – there's one beneath this counter." He gestures to where both of you ate.

He said that like a command – as if he's ordering you.

_Hell no._ "Hell no," you echo your mind.

He looks up at you, as he stands, an eyebrow cocked.

"I am _not_ going to clean this up."

"Yes, you are," he says.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are."

"Can JARVIS do this?" you ask in exasperation.

"I thought you're good pals with him."

"Your point?" you raise a brow.

"You don't let friends do your work, now do you?" he's mocking you; you know it.

"Well – you _are_ too!" you indicate him, "Plus, since when is this work _mine_?"

"Since you step inside this house – and you aren't a legal adult yet," he states in that _well-duh_ tone. "Also, I'm the one who made him."

"What's the difference?" you ask, "And I can already drive!"

"I can say and make him do anything I want," he replies. "Doesn't matter if you _can_ drive or not, kid."

"Of course it does!" you frown deeply, "Then, ask him to do this!"

"It's _your_ job; you can't ask a friend to do your work," he says, mischief apparent in his eyes. "Besides, he can't. He has no arms here."

"_My _job? I told you for the f–"

He cuts you off, "Watch the language, kiddo."

"As if you don't watch yours," you counter.

This is another moment, wherein he falls into that bothersome silence, which makes a small amount of guilt form in your mind, but, you don't dare apologize – you have pride to keep.

Luckily, he gets over his still poise fast. "Do it, kid."

Before you can protest again, he leaves.

And for half an hour, you clean up the mess, grumbling curses all the way.

Once you're done, you instantly walk to your room, stretching your back – _goodness, it hurts_.

Soon, you arrive at your destination, closing the door with a loud, echoing _thud_, before approaching your bed, jumping on it in exhaustion, not caring about your laptop or your sneakers.

The soft sensation of the comfy pillows, mattress and blankets makes your tensed muscles relax immediately. It feels really good. And, in a matter of minutes, your angry, but, tired mind slips into the drowsy darkness.

* * *

**A/N: YES. I MANAGED TO FINISH THIS. THANK GODS.**

**Sorry for the long wait, everyone. Really am. ): Also, if ever Tony's OOC, I **_**really**_** apologize for that. I'm doing my best.**

**I hope you enjoyed this second chapter, even if it isn't long enough like the first one.**

**I just wrote this to end the day, you know? So, we could go on to the next day – and so, we could give JARVIS some love! The guy deserves it. 3 (:**

**Anyway, read, review & enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own you or Tony or JARVIS or any of the mentioned characters. Just the story.**


	3. Chapter Three

**Babysat by Uncle Tony**: Chapter Three

* * *

**Summary**: _You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

"A," you hear a familiar voice call, as it shakes you away from your slumber. "A."

You groan. You don't really like being woken up; you prefer waking yourself up, unless you're having a really pleasant dream. "Not now," you growl.

"I apologize for drowsing you, A. But, Sir Stark has told me to tell you that your breakfast is ready."

Wait – hold up – _Sir Stark? _

You open your eyes, ignoring the burning pain as the sunlight strikes them from the glass windows, and sit up abruptly as you look around and frown. The events yesterday rolls into your mind as you remember that you're with your uncle in his mansion for fourteen days, while the one speaking to you is actually JARVIS, the artificially intelligent computer whom you befriended – and you haven't forgot your still zero-percent chance of survival – well, maybe, zero point one thousandths percent (0.001%).

You sigh through your nostrils, when a sudden pain hits your head due to your impulsive movement, as your mind tries to process what you just did. You lift a hand to your forehead, caressing it as though that would ease its pain, "Time?"

"Seven thirty in the morning," JARVIS replies robotically.

You groan much louder. You do _not _wake up seven goddamn thirty in the fucking morning. What the hell is the time zone in Tony's mind? You have a feeling your uncle did this on purpose.

_Oh god. _The headache has gotten worse – thinking too much right now is bad – really, really bad at the moment.

"Did Tony ask you to do this purposely, JARV'?" you ask him as you swing your legs at the edge of your bed, and notice that you haven't taken off your sneakers.

There's no response as you untie and pick them up. You stand only with your socks, as you stretch a bit.

"JARVIS?" You call out.

"Yes, A?"

Oh. He's not allowed to speak about it, which shows the fact that Tony _did _do this intentionally.

"Nothing," you decide not to roll on that subject anymore; you're already plotting your revenge. "What were you to tell me again, JARVIS?" you inquire, going back to the main topic, even though you actually know what he is asked to say.

"Your breakfast is ready," he replies bluntly.

You nod as if he's in front of you, and approach your walk-in closet. You open the door, step inside, and click the lights on. You scan the now brightly lit room – carpeted flooring, solid, silver walls and ceiling with the same kind of light all over the mansion, and rows and columns of drawers filled with clothing, along with a comfy, red, big, circular stool in the center, and the changing area at the corner – with a four-crimson-panel screen framed by golden metal, dividing the room to cover you up when you change.

You transform into new clothes. You throw your last night's clothing at a basket, as dirty laundry, while you alter into a simple shirt with sweatpants to get yourself comfortable.

You move to the shoes section. You scan them, searching for your flip flops, which you placed yesterday – and there it is. You pick it up, replacing it with your sneakers. You move towards the stool, sit on it, and remove your socks. You throw them at the basket, and wear your flip flops.

You smile, contented, hiding the wicked grin in your mind. _This'll annoy the hell out of him_, you think, as you skip out of the room, turn the lights off, and shut the door behind you.

* * *

"Where's breakfast, JARVIS?" you ask as you stand outside your room.

"It is in the first floor's kitchen," he responds.

"Thanks," you say as you begin walking down the hallway, your flip flops flip-flopping noisily at your wake, the sound echoing around the hallway, amplifying tenfold.

You smirk, wondering if your uncle can hear it from the kitchen.

In several minutes, you arrive at your destination. You look up; expecting your uncle at his usual place on the first stool, eating whatever there's for breakfast –the leftover Chinese food, most likely– but, you only see a simple bowl on the third seat, where you sat last night, a spoon on it, a cereal box and a carton of milk beside it – no one and nothing else.

You frown, disappointed at the fact that your uncle isn't here to complain about your loud flip flops.

_Might as well enjoy the cereal_, you think as you approach the lazily prepared food, and are about to sit down on the stool, but, decide against it – you suppose, this morning, you'll explore the Stark Mansion again, whilst thinking about more ways to annoy your uncle.

So, you pick up the cereal box and the carton of milk, pour it on the bowl, and mix it with the spoon before placing them back in the fridge. You take the bowl, continuing to mix it, as you step out of the kitchen and, with your flip flops flip-flopping loudly, begin your morning adventure.

* * *

You stare at the body of water below you through the glass window. The view's much more beautiful when you're at the back of the mansion, especially at the current time, with the sun rising, casting sunlight on the water, making it sparkle, and blinding those who stare, like you, right now.

You subconsciously dip your spoon in the bowl, lifting both cereal and milk as you place it in your mouth, chewing and swallowing it all down.

This is when you start to ponder where your uncle could possibly be, if ever he could hear the annoying noise of your flip flops, which are starting to bother you too.

You continue to consider, as you turn away from the magnificent view and walk down towards a surprisingly dim and seemingly empty hallway that doesn't look familiar at all, which makes you stop thinking. It seems like you haven't explored this part of the mansion.

You gaze around it: the same kind of ceiling, walls and floor, although, the lights don't seem to be in their best condition, resulting into a dark hall. No noise could be heard, as it's eerily quiet. The only sounds you can hear are your breathing and loud flip flops. It's just . . . really unfilled – there are no doors and windows. It appears to be abandoned, left alone and forgotten, which reminds you so much about yourself in a corner, alone, hidden and ancient history, asking for attention at your tenth birthday party.

Your eyes suddenly sting, heating up, as your vision blurs slightly.

You groan.

Right now is the worst time and place to sob – especially of the company you have in this residence, and weeping isn't exactly your favourite thing to do.

You instantly begin blinking rapidly, fighting back the tears. But, one has managed to escape. You let go of your spoon, holding the bowl carefully with one hand, as the other tries to wipe it, however, you're too late; it has slid down your cheek, following the outline of your jaw, stops momentarily at your chin and drops at your cereal bowl with a soft _ting_.

Fortunately, it's only one tear, as you've controlled your emotions.

For a moment, you just stare down at your bowl. The fallen tear has created tiny and milky waves from its impact, and you just watch it flow. You wonder if ever you should still continue eating it.

As you gawk at it, you unexpectedly have a realization. You now see that you haven't forgotten that day, and you haven't forgiven him for doing it. Like you ever would, anyway; you'd only do it when he actually apologizes, or even just makes up for it – which is all rather impossible – then, you notice that you haven't thought of forgiving and forgetting at all. You're too busy hating him.

"Kid?" You freeze.

_Well, speak of the devil._

A sudden sensation of anger and hatred surges through you at the mere sound of his voice, building inside you as you try to control yourself – _no_, you'll not explode. You'll just annoy him and drive him mad. That is your mission.

You blink rapidly, checking if your eyes are wet, and notice that it is – only slightly. You hopefully trust that it isn't too obvious – you wouldn't want him to see you in such a weak state; he'd mock you to no end for sure.

You instantly lift your spoon and begin mixing a bit casually, as though nothing has happened.

You turn around to see that your uncle looks as pleasant to the eyes as the spectacle and scent of the Incredible Hulk's ass. He doesn't seem to have changed since last night's dinner; he's still wearing that dark cerulean shirt, shady bottoms and trouble-free sneakers – just like the fact (you're certain it's a fact) that he doesn't appear to have even bother to shower. You can _smell _his revolting stench from where you are (which is only several feet away from him) that it stings your eyes. Now that you think about it, blurry vision _is_ good right now.

"What?" you say, trying to act nonchalant.

He narrows his eyes, "What are you doing here?" He asks accusingly, which you find offensive, of course, although, you don't feel mad, as he apparently doesn't seem to notice any changes from you, which is a relief.

You scoop up some cereal, catching milk into the spoon, as you persist eating. "'Was travelling 'round the mansion," you reply, shrugging casually.

He shifts his weight to his other leg, staring you, his eyes thin. He doesn't appear to believe you.

You wonder why he's so wary of you. He doesn't need to. You're not into anything bad; you just want to annoy him, that's all. But, you suppose he has the right to be cautious. It's obvious from the start that you don't like him and he doesn't like you – it's mutual. For him, you may be up to something, and you could share that feeling too. So, this is probably normal.

_Probably_. Because it's not fully likely that it _is_ ordinary as you know that you're actually allowed to explore the house and marvel its features. He allowed you to do that ever since yesterday – the only thing he conditioned is to not touch anything, which you truly haven't, honestly. You just stare, and observe. No hands involved.

So, why is he truly suspicious of you?

The question has your mind hooked.

He only became this alert is when . . . _holy crap–brain blast_ . . . he spotted you in _this hallway_. This hall must have something dear to him.

You let your eyes scan it again, looking for anything, an object most likely. But, there isn't anything here. There are no items at all. Nothing, empty, as you think it is.

Then, that means this leads to a _place _dear to him. It must lead somewhere he doesn't want you to know – he doesn't want you to find.

You examine it again and you notice that, although it has no doors or windows, it doesn't have a dead end. The hallway snakes into a corner, which is possibly where your uncle is hiding this location he doesn't want you to discover. It's almost as if it's a secret place.

A _secret_ place – a locality perhaps known by a small number of people (or computers, in that matter) and is being withheld intentionally from general knowledge.

You're now curious.

"You shouldn't eat while walking," he advises you.

You look up at him, raising a brow, "Egsuse me?" You speak, barely realizing that you've been subconsciously eating while thinking deeply, as there's cereal being chewed in your mouth.

"Don't eat while walking around," he says. "Just because of ignorance, you might spill it on the floor – and you'll be mopping it."

He seems to be changing the subject. But, you're too busy being angry at the fact that he's underestimating you.

_Ignorance_? You have lots of knowledge to be aware of what you're holding. You open your mouth to reply, as you approach him in anger, but, he stops you halfway.

"You know what? Don't walk at all. I've been hearing those flip flops all morning and it's irritating," he looks down at your footwear in annoyance before walking past you to go to the other end of the hallway.

You smile smugly, watching him disappear before sauntering into another hall, a familiar one this time.

Well, at least he's bothered now. That made your morning.

And frankly, that's what you'll be doing the whole day – or maybe, you'll have a break.

* * *

**"JARVIS," Tony calls as he steps inside his workshop, the door behind him sliding shut automatically.

"Yes, sir?" JARVIS' voice echoes around the wide and large place, loudly and clearly.

"Speed dial Rhodey for me, will ya?" He walks over to his main desk. He sees his creation, which he loves very dearly, hanging inside a sphere, well protected, just several feet from him, and gazes at it like it's his own child.

"Loud speaker, sir?" JARVIS inquires.

Tony frowns, and looks down at his desk, scanning for the blueprint he has thought of last night before that silent dinner with his [niece/nephew], "Yeah."

In a few seconds, Tony could hear the sound of a ringing phone. He spots an azure tip of what seems to be paper beneath a white document. He lifts it, and snatches the blue piece. Seeing that it is his blueprint, he sets it down in front of him, his brain working rapidly.

Tony hears the click of a phone being picked up, and his ears waits, anticipating for the sound of his best friend's voice, while his brain works out the blueprint, trying to see any flaws.

"Hello, this is Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. How may I help you?"

"Are you trying to be some sort of operator, Rhodey?" Tony mocks, without any greetings, which is expected, as he picks up a random pencil without scanning the table and writes something down on the blueprint because he actually did see a flaw – although, it's nothing big.

"No, Tony," Rhodey replies, his tone changing into the one he usually uses when he's speaking to his best friend. "It's a habit. Why are you calling on my office number?"

"I was checking if you were either at that stupid force or at your house," Tony answers, examining the draft, confirming if what he has written removes the error.

"Well, I'm at work. What do you want?"

"Are you busy?" Tony asks.

There's stunned silence, as Rhodey doesn't reply. It's rather rare for Tony to ask those kinds of questions, because, generally, he doesn't care. Well, Rhodey has to say, Tony does have lots of surprises. Unfortunately, he experiences them too much.

"Uh . . . ," Rhodey clears his throat. "Right now, there's nothing going on. So, yeah, I'm not," he finally replies.

"Good," Tony nods in approval – it's either because Rhodey isn't busy or that the error has been successfully eliminated, or perhaps both. "I need you here."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Goddamn it, Tony."

"In my mansion, Rhodes, where else?"

Rhodey snorts at the other end of the line, "Why do you need me?"

"I have a kid here."

"What?! You impregnated a woman – is it Pepper?! I thought she's in Washington–" "_No_, Rhodes," this really grabbed his attention, as he stops multi-tasking and merely listened, "I've had sex all my life, and I was safe. I did _not_ impregnate anyone. Dear god, especially Pepper!"

"Oh," the lieutenant sighs in relief. He doesn't want to deal with anymore of Tony's problems. "Then, who's the youngster? How'd you get him or her?"

"Apparently, the kid's mother called Pepper, told her that they'll be going someplace for two weeks and that they need someone to babysit [her/him]. But, at that time, Pepper's going to Washington. JARVIS told me she called me a few hours early about it, though, didn't really care," he waves his hand dismissively as though his close pal is merely in front of him, although he's still scrutinizing the draft. "The next thing I know – the doorbell couldn't stop ringing. Then, there's this seventeen-year-old kid, who made it _very _clear that [she/he] does not like me at all, on my doorstep. [She/he]'s actually my [niece/nephew] – blood-related to _me_."

Rhodey isn't exactly surprised to find out that someone dislikes Tony – he's more shocked that a _Stark_-blood child is the one _detesting _him. He expects Stark relatives to be rather proud of his close friend. "There's another Stark in this planet?"

"Yeah, and I thought that'd be fun. I mean, I wouldn't mind clones of myself – but, honestly, I couldn't believe this. I thought I was the last one – but, of course, I'm not. The kid's actually the [daughter/son] of a cousin of mine I've known who knows how many centuries ago. I never knew he's still alive."

"_Tony_."

"Hey, don't blame me. I didn't know. I just assumed all my Stark relatives are dead. It's very likely as no one really visits me or asks about how I am, not that I would care, anyway."

"And you were wrong?"

There's silence.

Rhodey smirks at himself. He knows Tony doesn't like it when he's wrong – even when he is, he won't admit it. He just says it's a mistake or some other dull excuse.

"Wipe that stupid smirk off your face, Rhodes."

"Will do," Rhodey says, although that merely made the leer widen. "So, what's the teenager's name?" he asks, turning much more serious now.

"Don't know; don't care," Tony replies. That's expected. He doesn't give a damn about these kinds of things – or most things, in that matter – except those that concern him, such as . . . well, himself and the "_peace_" of this world. "But, [her/his] nickname's A," he adds.

"A?"

"Yeah, like the letter _A_."

"Seriously? Like the beginning of the alphabet?"

"I know. It's stupid. Mine's practically better."

"Why?" Rhodey asks, curiously.

"Rhodey, you know why _my_ name's better–"

"No, Tony," Rhodey cuts him off, rolling his eyes. "Not your nickname. I mean the youngster's."

"Oh."

Rhodey knows he's humiliated Tony slightly, but, he doesn't apologize. Apologizing to his best friend is actually much more regretful than whatever act you did to him. His arrogance tests one's temper too much.

"Don't really know, don't care either way," Tony replies casually.

"So, what do you want me for, Tony?" Rhodey asks, getting back into business.

"A few moments ago, the kid was flip flopping around my property, 'said [she/he] was travelling 'round, which I don't believe, 'course, who would believe that damn of a child? Anyway, the kid was holding a bowl of cereal, which [she/he]'s apparently eating – seriously, though, if that goddamn cornflakes spills on _my_ floors, which is probably what the kid's thinking of doing right now, [she/he]'s sure as hell that kid's gonna mop it all up – and do you _know _how fucking annoying [her/his] flip flops are? I have no frigging idea where that child got those goddamn pair of footwear, but, [she/he] seems to enjoy driving me fucking mad with 'em, and a lot more things too. I'm just heavenly lucky that son of a–" "_Tony_," "–stays in [her/his] room all day – _and_ I found [her/him] walking in the hallway that led to my workshop!" Tony pauses, as though waiting for Rhodey to gasp in shock, but, since it didn't come, he continues, "You know, Rhodey, this place is top secret, and I do _not_ want that child to find it, 'cause, even if I already told world that I'm Iron Man, I still don't want anyone comin' to my grounds – especially _that _youngster. Hence, I do not trust this child anymore, not that I did before, I never did and probably, never will. So, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force, I ask you to come here and watch over [her/him], will you?"

Rhodey doesn't really mind to hear Tony's rants. He's used to them, especially with Tony's speed of chatter. It's just he never heard this kind of rant. Usually, it's more on the Air Force, or the world peace, or the Press, or the Senators and their complaints or the government. Now, it's about a seventeen-year-old kid. It's very amusing, he thinks, especially that the hatred between the uncle and [niece/nephew] is mutual. Maybe, he's going to like this child.

And he finds it ironic on how Tony "doesn't want anyone comin' to his grounds", but asks him to come. "You want me to babysit the kid you're babysitting?"

"That's another way of looking at it, yeah."

He glances at his schedule pasted on his desk. "For how long?" he asks.

"The whole day,"

Rhodey raises a brow, as if Tony is merely in front of him, "Tony, I can't stay there for the entire day. I have a job to do."

Tony snorts, as he takes a box made of glass, but, without its base, which he created just last night too, and approaches his magnificent creation, "Are you doing that job right now? Is that even a _job_? Don't you have a break or whatever you '_militarians_' do? JARVIS can't take care of this kid, although, the child actually _befriended _him."

Rhodey disregards all of Tony's questions and focuses more on the last sentence. His eyebrow lifts higher, "JARVIS has friends?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, I'm afraid I do," he hears JARVIS chimes in.

"Don't join the conversation, JARVIS," Tony commands, as he places the glass box on his creation, gluing it tight on its pedestal.

Rhodey smiles in amusement, ignoring Tony, "Don't be afraid of it, JARVIS. I think it's good you do."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel." Even the computer's overlooking Tony.

"I can't believe you agree with him – he's a _computer_, for god's sake," Tony frowns, flipping his middle finger and thumb at the glass, creating tiny and echoing _pang_s, checking if it's strong enough.

"You are very welcome, JARVIS," Rhodey continues to disregard Tony.

"Gee, thank you both so much for completely paying no heed to me. I feel so special," Tony says sarcastically.

Rhodey chuckles – and he has a feeling JARVIS is smiling too. "It's our pleasure, Tony, right, JARV'?"

"Indeed, Lieutenant Colonel."

"Wow, you're calling him _JARV' _too? You know what? Never mind, don't come at all, you and the kid might enjoy each other's time too much."

Rhodey grins widely, "I'm kidding. I'd like to meet the kid." His smile falls, "But, Tony, I'm not sure if I can find a long break today."

"Work something out; you're a lieutenant-whatever, anyway."

Rhodey sighs, "Alright, I'll call you when I'm allowed."

"Move your ass, soldier."

* * *

You're in your room. You've taken a break of annoying your uncle. Hey, infuriating a man like Tony Stark isn't easy (or is it?). Either way, a time out is always good.

You sit comfortably on your comfy bed, using your PC, whilst listening to music.

"A?"

It's been a while since you've heard JARVIS' voice that you perk up to it instantly. You realize you've greatly missed talking to him, even if it's only been a few hours.

"Yeah?" you say, setting your laptop aside.

"Your uncle has called for your presence at the front door."

Another very . . . _wrong _sentence.

"Well, alright," you hop on your butt to the edge of the bed, slipping your feet into the flip flops you love.

You walk out of your room, closing the door behind you. You stride on the hallway, turning into another hall, before finally reaching the staircase.

You descend it, pondering why the hell your uncle would ask for you again. It's not exactly the time to eat or any activity that seems to be necessary. You don't think he's going to tell you to take a bath (unlike your mother), it's actually too early for that, and it's rather unlikely for him to say so. He doesn't give much crap about hygiene – anyone's or his. And if he will (which you doubt a lot), he should've told JARVIS to say it, because he's that kind of lazy-ass guy.

You arrive at the last step and jump into floor level, your flip flops' flapping echoing loudly around the place. You pass by one of the first floors' living rooms before arriving at the front door to hear your uncle say to this thin, dark-skinned man in uniform, "See what I mean with that god-forbidden footwear?"

The man merely shakes his head, until both spots you.

You give the dark man a quick look-over, scanning and registering his appearance in your brain. You suppose he's from a certain field in the military because of his black hair, shaved semi-bald style, the uniform, which is surprisingly simple for someone who's part of the force, as it's only a three-buttoned, dark azure coat, pinned with golden badges on its shoulders and his left chest; a simple white button-down with the same, cerulean tie, and a pair of matching, dark cobalt bottoms with black, pointy, formal shoes, also, the posture: stiff, chin up and hands behind his straight back.

Although he has a dark brown complexion, his coffee-hued eyes really pop up vividly. His nostrils are rather larger than necessary that it reminds you of gorillas and monkeys. There are, also, worried creases on his forehead (which you're sure was caused by Tony).

"'Sup, Edward?" You tease your uncle. (You see the man smile slightly.)

Tony ignores your greeting as he gestures to the man beside him, "Kid, this is Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. He's going to look after you, whereas I . . . disappear for a while."

You have a feeling that, that _for a while _is longer than needed. But, you have no problem with him disappearing. It's like he's not around anyway.

"A _Lieutenant Colonel of the U.S. Air Force_ – don't you think you're exaggerating a bit, Tony?" You arch a brow at your uncle.

"Nope, I think it's the security you and I need," he waves his hand dismissively as he turns to the lieutenant. "So, yeah, this is _the_ kid. You watch over [her/him], and report to me every after four hours what [she/he] does to keep me updated," Tony explains, "Enjoy the next twelve hours!" And with a blink, he's gone.

You shift your head to the lieutenant awkwardly.

"So, you're . . . A?" Rhodey raises a brow. Even if he's supposed to wear a serious demeanour, especially with his uniform, the atmosphere is actually easygoing. The man seems nicer than what his position says that you don't feel so shy or scared.

You nod – s_o much for not feeling so shy or scared._

"What's your real name?" He asks, approaching you slowly, his hands behind his back.

You reply your real name, breaking a bit with your surname, Stark.

"You're not so much of a proud Stark, huh?"

You shake your head. "Have you met other Starks?" you ask curiously, wondering what this person's past with Tony, as your uncle appears not to fear him at all. Then again, your uncle fears no one. (But if he does, he doesn't show it.)

He shrugs slightly, "Several, although, _they _were proud, especially with Tony." _Aaah, _first-name basis; this must mean this man and Tony _are_ close.

You snort, but don't respond.

"Can I call you by your first name?" he asks politely.

You consider the question before replying, "I prefer A."

He nods, "Okay, A, then."

Side by side, both of you begin walking towards the flight of stairs you descended previously.

"So, just to get this clear," you say. "Do I have to act all soldier-y with you? Because, I really can't do that, although, I know how to give respect to those who deserve it."

He smiles, "That explains your attitude with Tony, huh?"

You cheekily grin.

"But, no, it's not really necessary; you can just be . . . yourself," he says. "I'm not in base, anyway."

You nod to express your gratitude. "Thanks. Should I call you 'Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force' too or anything near that?"

"You can call me Rhodey."

"Are you sure?" you ask warily. "'Cause I seriously don't want to get in trouble with my pa–"

He chuckles, "It's fine, A. I wouldn't mind."

You smile in relief, "Good."

* * *

**11:30AM**

* * *

"Rhodey?"

"Tony?"

"How's the kid? [She/he] isn't causin' any trouble, is [she/he]?"

"Negative. A's fine."

"_A_?"

"[She/he] prefers that more than [her/his] own name, so, yes, A."

"Holy shit, did [she/he] _befriend _you?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"I've been thinking [she/he]'s forming some sort of army against me."

"You're paranoid, Stark."

"Remind me, how many times have you told me that?"

"So many times you barely register it in your mind."

"And I will now. So, where are you anyway?"

"In A's room."

"You're in the kid's _room_?"

"Positive."

"What are you now – a pedophile?"

"Says the pedophile himself."

There's silence.

"Fair enough. What's the kid doing?"

"[She/he]'s just talking to me and JARVIS."

"Good. No trouble. Report me in four hours."

"Roger."

"Steve?"

"_Tony_."

"Tony Rogers?"

"You're disgusting, Stark."

"I'm straight, Rhodes, no worries. You know my sex life–"

"I don't, and I don't want to. Talk to you later, Tony."

* * *

**3:30PM**

* * *

"Report, Lieutenant?"

"We're fine, Stark." Tony hears a sigh. "A's not doing any trouble."

"Good. Wait – what – what's that noise?"

"The television."

"Why is _my_ television turned on?"

"We're watching a movie."

"Movie? What movie?"

"Batman."

"Which Batman movie?"

"The–" "_Uncle Rhodey, the popcorn's ready!_"

"The hell–_Uncle Rhodey_?"

"I know, 'uncle' fits my name perfectly."

"No, it does not. It fits mine."

"Adding 'uncle' to _your _name makes you sound like an old man."

"Maybe, because I _am _old, Rhodey."

"So, you admit it?"

"Of course, I admit it. Although, I, also, _am _living a life full of youth."

"Grow old, Stark."

"And die happily. I can do that . . . _Uncle _Rhodey."

"Oh, god, please, no."

"Ah, correction: oh, god, yes, please."

"Goodbye, Tony."

* * *

**7:30PM**

* * *

"Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, Sir Stark calls for your company at the front door," JARVIS says, disturbing you and your new uncle's game of Monopoly, which you found in one of the drawers of your desk.

You frown, knowing very well what this means. You lift your gaze to Rhodey to see him already standing up, and wearing his coat.

You sigh. You begin fixing the board, cleaning it up, as he assists you. Once everything has been placed inside the thin box, you pick it up, stand and put the game board back where you found it.

You face Rhodey. "Are you going to come back?" you couldn't help ask.

He frowns, "I'm not sure, A. I managed to come here only because I had to really talk it out and I was barely allowed."

"Oh." Yes, you're disappointed. In these twelve hours, you didn't waste it with just your laptop; you used it with a newfound friend or uncle – you've gotten to know him, and he's gotten to know you, which was actually much more enjoyable. The man knows how to have fun, despite what his position and job says, and with the newly added "uncle" beside his name proved he deserved your respect. You're just really going to miss him.

Rhodey could clearly see the disappointment on your face. A sudden feeling of pity rains on him, as he attempts to give you some hope. "But, I'll try to, whenever I'm given a chance."

You look up, as you feel the sensation of optimism rushing through you. You grin, "Awesome. Be sure to call first."

He smiles, "I might do a surprise visit."

You don't respond, but, you continue to grin. You slip your hands in the pockets of a new pair of bottoms you changed into after taking a bath four hours ago.

"You're a good person, A." Rhodey says, as he ruffles your hair.

"And you're a good man, Uncle Rhodes," you reply, fixing your messed locks a bit.

He doesn't answer, but just walks away, and you merely watch. "See you when I do, A!" You hear him shout when he's already out of your room.

"See you when I do, Uncle!" you shout back, as you shut the door.

The atmosphere in the room dims a little. You return to your laptop.

* * *

"There you are," Tony says in slight exasperation, as he stands nearby the entrance to his abode. "What took you so long?"

"No reason," Rhodey walks and halts before the front door and his best friend.

"Have you guys eaten lunch?" Tony asks.

Rhodey knows his best friend gives no crap about that, he only asks to know if ever he has to buy some food. "Yeah."

"Dinner?"

Rhodey nods.

"You alright, Rhodes?"

He doesn't reply.

"It's that kid, huh? Has [she/he] gotten under your skin?"

"He's not a kid, Tony, [she/he]'s seventeen, for goodness' sake," Rhodey snaps.

"I see [she/he] has befriended you too," Tony fails to notice the anger in his close pal's voice, which was caused due to Tony's treatment towards you.

"Tony," Rhodey looks up at him solemnly, his eyes gleaming seriously. "A is an excellent individual, [she/he]'s much more than you think [she/he] is."

Tony knits his brows in confusion, "What are you talking about?"

"Honestly, [she/he] actually . . . reminds me of you. The appearance, the brains, the brawns–"

"Whoa – Rhodey – [she/he] and I are _not _alike."

"Yeah, in personality, A knows more of who [she/he] is, and [she/he] did something about it."

"That sounds unlikely of the kid."

"That's because you don't know [her/him] at all."

"Rhodey, wh–why are you . . . what are you getting at?" Tony's perplexed. Rhodey is a strict disciplinarian, he knows that, but, that's just the impression people get from him. Tony knows more. His best friend is an easygoing, brave man, who really cares of those close to him. He doesn't suppose his [niece/nephew] is already _that _close to Rhodey . . . is [she/he]?

"Tony," Rhodey sighs. He takes the doorknob, and twists it open, before looking up at his best pal, "Both of you will be together in this house for two weeks. Do me a favour and try having, at least, a day away from technology, and just . . . hang out, alright? You both need it."

Tony opens his mouth to retort, but, Rhodey doesn't give him time to do so. "You promise me?"

The billionaire shuts his mouth. He looks up at the eyes of his greatest companion. It shines sincerity and concern. Yep, his [niece/nephew] really is _that _close to him.

He heaves a sigh. "Okay. But, I don't keep my promises – you know that."

Rhodey grins, "I know more than that, Tony."

Before he could reply, Rhodey is gone.

Tony exhales noisily in annoyance. Rhodey knows him too well.

Too well enough to know he does keep his promises.

* * *

**A/N: I AM NOT A STONY FAN. TONY REALLY IS JUST A DISGUSTING MAN.**

**Okay, just wanted to put that thought there. No offense to the yaoi fans out there! I just support mostly canon, or straight couples. So, don't expect any yaoi/yuri couples here, I'll be only adding the canon ones, or my personal favorites. But, honestly, there won't be romance much. Just a tinge.**

**Anyway, I hope Rhodey isn't too OOC, and that the facts here are right. I really need to watch Iron Man again, I swear. I have to hear Tony and Rhodey's voices to remind myself of their characters.**

**By the way, this has made it to eighteen pages. Wow. My first chapter was **_**still **_**longer. But, I wish you all enjoyed it, as I enjoyed writing this. (: **

**I want to say that I made this a reader-insert rather than making a character myself because I want readers to have fun with their imagination – not just me, the writer – because, if I made my own character, the result would be that I'm the one enjoying rather than you guys, the readers (and because I don't like OCs very much, making them is complicated). So, yeah, I chose reader-insert. Also, I made it unisex to be fair with guys, 'cause, most of the time, I see female reader-inserts. Don't think I'm siding with them, I'm a girl too and I enjoy the romance reader-inserts. But, I really just want to be fair. **

'**Kay, just wanted to put that there too.**

**Anyway, guys, don't worry. You'll be meeting the Avengers team after two or three chapters (I shortened it). For now, it's all about you and your uncle Tony! 8D**

**If there are any mistakes, I apologize, but do point it out. Thank you!**

**Read, enjoy and review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own everything – just the story.**


	4. Chapter Four

**Babysat by Uncle Tony**: Chapter Four

* * *

**Summary**: _You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

Thor watches the citizens of Asgard do their usual duties from the balcony of his quarters. He's been thinking a lot, ever since he has left Midgard; he's missed the planet greatly. He's been dying to go back, but, that damn rainbow bridge, the Bifrost, hasn't regenerated completely yet – even after two long years. Although he knows he can still go there via his father's dark magic, it takes a lot of Odin's energy to do it, and he only has limited time to stay on Midgard, besides, his father won't allow it unless extremely necessary.

But, there's something that has been going on around Asgard that bothers Thor so much. Someone – or maybe even, something – has stolen the special, Asgardian staff, which was being displayed publicly in a famous museum, as it's a historical artefact, with its magic and function gone. It _was_ very useful and valuable – the staff can channel any (and only) Asgardian's magic or power exceedingly better than most magical tools; it was used by great and powerful gods and demigods – however that was two millenniums and a century ago, not now. Its power is most likely gone. So, who would steal such a worthless instrument?

He's been investigating this for several months now, although his father told him to let the professional, Asgardian investigators handle it – but, well, haven't you met Thor? He's not a man to obey someone's (especially one whose position is higher than his) commands or orders.

He's trying to think of possible suspects, but, there are just none that comes to his mind. There aren't any witnesses either – it happened late in the evening – and it makes the job a lot more difficult.

It can't be his adopted brother, Loki, although he hasn't changed as, he's still the same mischievous, manipulating, pensive and farseeing brother Thor's known when he betrayed him. The misshapen Frost Giant is still in his prison deep below the palace, locked and secure from any possible mischief and escape. He's surprisingly quiet if not spoken to and if verbal sentence is worthless to be responded, but he still has his usual witty and sarcastic comments. Thor knows because he occasionally visits him, of course.

Still, it just seems . . . unlikely.

_BAM!_

Thor turns to the source of the sound, which is just behind him, to see that the large mahogany entrance of his quarters has been slammed open by one of his close friends, Lady Sif.

Strands of her long, black ponytail whips her face, although, she doesn't flinch, and her hair is a mess, as though she has been running thousands of flights of stairs, The usual determined and proud expression of her eyes is gone, replaced by panic and fear, which is strange for her.

Thor approaches his panicking comrade in concern, "Lady Sif, what is wro–"

"Thor," she breathes, "Loki has escaped."

* * *

"How did this happen, Lady Sif?" Thor inquires, hurrying down the circling stairs with his comrade behind him.

"He has managed to manipulate the guards–"

"Manipulate the sentries? How?"

"I do not know, Thor, perhaps by his own words? You should know your brother – he's devious!"

"How many sentries did he manage to control?"

"Only two."

"Alright – continue."

"–his manipulation succeeded, and they allowed him to get away."

Thor stops unexpectedly that Sif nearly knocks onto his back. "As uncomplicated as that?" he frowns, turning around to face his friend.

Sif shrugs, "I did not witness the occurrence, Thor, but, Hogun the Grim has."

His eyes widen, "Hogun was there?"

"Yes, he was passing by while it's happening."

"Are both sentries being questioned now?"

Sif nods, "By Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg."

"What do they know?"

"Nothing."

Thor stares at her in disbelief, "_Nothing_?"

She shakes her head, "None at all – both could not recall anything."

Thor frowns in discontent – there must be more of this.

"Yes, but, what of Loki's powers? Was it not stripped off by the All-father?"

"Can you not recall, Thor? We had a ceremony of it; we were spectators. Fandral even spoke a joke about your brother not being _literally_ stripped off."

"Yes, yes, I remember," that memory is pretty clear in his mind. "But . . . how did he manage that?"

"I can only think of nothing, Thor. We are both acquainted of these ceremonies – his powers or magic can only return when he is . . . ," then, it hits them, "when he is out of Odin's reach!" both exclaim simultaneously.

Thor instantly turns back around and begins rushing down the stairs again, "Are all at the Hall of Asgard?"

"No, only the All-Father and your mother," Sif replies, running behind him, slightly exhausted.

There's silence, before it dawns on her on what Thor is planning.

She halts him by grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to face her, "You are _not_ daring to–"

"There is no other alternative," he looks up and stares at her in the most resolute face Sif could have ever seen him wear; his voice is filled with certainty that she knows, whatever she is to say, to do, nothing would stop him.

Thor could clearly see that Sif is desperately trying to prevent him on what he is about to do; he knows his friend cares for him deeply. However, they both know that they have no choice, but this one. Both know where Loki is going – and what he's probably up to. They know it is up to Thor to end it.

Sif notices her dry throat and gulps. She nods, "If so, but, at least, bring me along with you–"

Thor instantly shakes his head, "No, you must stay."

"But–"

"Sif, protect and guard Asgard, along with the Three Warriors . . . ," Thor says, and when he sees her opening her mouth to protest, he adds immediately, "For me?"

This shut her mouth completely.

Sif takes a moment of consideration, as there is silence. She stares at Thor's electric azure eyes – they are unexpectedly solemn, and more confident than usual. It has no doubt, and filled with faith. She really has never seen Thor like this.

She sighs in exasperation, before finally nodding agreement, "Alright then."

* * *

"Father!"

Thor enters the Hall of Asgard, with Sif closely behind him, running towards Odin, who was sitting on his throne, but, due to his son's entrance and call, he is standing.

As Thor nears him, he takes a second to decide whether he should kneel first in respect or not, as he is very much in a hurry. But when he looks up to face his father, expecting to see stern and calm cerulean eyes, he sees dread, apprehension and . . . unbelievably, terror. He subconsciously decides to just stand and stare in shock.

"F-father . . ." Thor is speechless. He hasn't seen that expression before. Weirdly, it scares him much more than Odin's fuming gaze.

"Kneeling is not necessary in this matter, Thor," his voice is surprisingly calm, with the tiniest hint of panic. "Let us begin immediately." He stares walking down the stairs.

Thor's mother instantly appears beside her husband's throne.

"Mother . . ." the usual serene face Frigga wears is not there, replaced by a similar one with Odin's, yet, she stands with poise and tranquillity. The fact that his mother is carrying that expression frightens Thor more. This is getting very dangerous.

She nods at him, and, Thor, in shock, watches as her lips form a smile, "Do what must be done, my son."

Thor nods, before following his father.

Frigga's gaze falls onto Sif, who's walking towards Thor. "Lady Sif," she calls.

Sif instantly stops and looks at Frigga, kneeling in the process, "Your majesty?"

"Stay."

Sif opens her mouth to speak, and say that she will stay, but, Frigga has mistaken it for a protest, which is why she cuts her off.

"Please."

That drops Sif's guard – Frigga, with her status, isn't much of a woman who adds 'please' in her sentences. But, the fact that she did now, it must mean she really is frantic – especially with her expression: frowning in anxiety, her eyes glittering in panic and fright. She is letting her vulnerable side show.

Sif nods, "Yes, your highness."

All she could do now is to stand and watch Odin preparing to dismiss Thor as Thor readies himself. Just as Odin finishes speaking the enchantment, their eyes meet and lock in a second, both carrying worry and apprehension, before Thor finally disappears.

Sif really wishes she's there by Thor's side.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, sorry guys that you aren't included here, and that it's short but, like I told you before, this one has a story, and the problem is just beginning. :)) I am so excited. I enjoyed this. But, you'll be here in the next chapter, no worries!**

**Also, about you and meeting the Avengers . . . I'm not sure yet if you are going to meet them. Maybe, maybe not? If I will, it might take a superbly **_**looooo**_**ng time. (:**

**Sorry if Thor or Sif or Frigga or Odin is OOC. Speaking of these extra characters, do you think I should change it into an Avengers-Thor crossover? **

**Also, I let Sif show her side of having feelings for Thor – but only a little. I don't really support Thor x Sif much. I'm a Jane x Thor person. (: Speaking of them though, do you think I should add Jane Foster too? I don't know how to put her in though.**

**Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed it!**

**Read, enjoy and review.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Just the story.**


	5. Chapter Five

**Babysat by Uncle Tony**: Chapter Five

* * *

**Summary**: _You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

Three days has passed, and all of them were boring as hell. So, it's Thursday, and it makes no difference. It's still unexciting as any other day.

The only thing that brightens your days in the Stark Mansion is Uncle Rhodey's calls. He's been calling, at least, once a day ever since he left, to check up on you and Tony (of course). But, honestly, you haven't really done anything that's considered to be "trouble" for your blood-related uncle. You just use your laptop and listen to music all day. In fact, the only interaction you have with Tony is when you guys eat together – and that's actually rare now, as he always seems to be somewhere else, although he's just at home. But that doesn't bother you. It's good both of you are staying away from each other and Uncle Rhodey won't be coming to stop an upcoming brawl between you two (not that he'll know – or probably he will, there's always JARVIS).

As far as you all know, everything is alright . . .

* * *

"Sir?"

"JARVIS?" Tony doesn't look up from his work.

"You have a call."

"From who?"

"It is from Director Fury."

Tony tenses and halts immediately. Usually, Fury wouldn't really call him – actually, he doesn't. He just sends someone to pick him up if ever there's an emergency. However, if it's only a call, then, it's not that much of an urgent situation, but, it's the director, himself, calling – therefore, it must something significant, though, not critical.

"What did he say?" he asks.

"He is currently on hold, sir."

Now, that's just outright bizarre. When someone's calling, it would instantly go to Tony's voicemail, and they'd just leave their message. Director Fury could have only left a message . . . No, no, he probably wouldn't; the man's stubborn. This actually isn't bizarre after all (or maybe, just a bit weird).

"Pick it up, JARV'."

A click is heard.

"What a wonderful surprise, Fury. You miss me?" It's truly amazing how Tony speaks in such a monotone, yet, manages to be mocking.

Then, the deep voice that is Fury's speaks.

* * *

"A," you hear JARVIS say suddenly, cutting himself in midsentence, as he was elaborating why and how Mathematics was invented.

You perk up (you got lost somewhere in the explanation and gave up on listening), "Yeah?"

"Your uncle asks you to change, as long as you are out of your '_jamies_', as he had put it." You could clearly imagine JARVIS adding quotation marks to the word "jamies", as you can visibly vision your uncle saying that too.

"_Asks _me?" You raise a brow.

"Immediately."

You sigh; might as well follow the said command. You shut your laptop down, jump off the bed and walk towards the walk-in closet in a not-so-immediate way – although reluctance makes everything feel fair.

**. . .**

As you change into a good shirt and a nice pair of bottoms, you wonder why Tony is telling you to do this, especially the fact that it should be done in an instantaneous manner, during the morning (it's nine a.m., for Pete's sake) and why you didn't question the demand before actually doing it.

You zip the zipper of your pants and take out some good-looking pair of Converse shoes (with your favourite color!). You wear socks before placing them inside the shoes and tying them into a tight knot.

But, you aren't really paying attention to what you're doing. You're too busy thinking about the purpose of this. Are you and _he _going somewhere? It seems likely. Is it going to be fun? With the hurry, you don't think so. It must serious, especially by the fact that he's going to bring you along. He really can't trust you alone in this house, regardless of the artificial intelligent computer.

You're about to throw your PJ's in the basket of dirty clothes when your walk-in closet door bursts open, causing you to look up instantly and stopping you halfway.

Oh. It's just him.

You look back at the basket and complete your current action, as though nothing has occurred. You clap the dust off your hands casually.

"Do you _not _know the meaning of 'immediate'?" he raises a brow.

Surprisingly, he's actually looking better than the past days you've seen him, although he's simply wearing a white shirt that says, **I AM**, on top of another word **IRONMAN** in red and gold, bold letters, with a dark blue, formal jacket, a seemingly crisp and neat pair of black bottoms and a red-and-gold sneakers, which seem to be the most expensive of all clothing he's wearing.

"I do," you reply. "I just don't do it that way," you shrug indifferently.

He exhales loudly through his nostrils. "Just move your ass," he says, as he turns around and begins walking away. You follow behind him unenthusiastically and uncaringly, closing the walk-in closet door behind you. As you walk out of your room, you spot your iPod, grab it immediately and pocket it. You may use it later.

**. . .**

"Where are we going?" you ask once both of you are in the hallway.

"Stay quiet and don't speak," he commands, completely not answering your question, which he seems to enjoy doing.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Don't you ever listen to me, kid?"

"Of course, I don't. Didn't I make that clear already?"

"Oh, yeah, like when _I _made it clear to you that you should shut up?"

Absolutely out-of-character of you, you don't respond (because some things aren't worth responding to).

When you and he near the front, main door, he suddenly says, "JARVIS, bring me a car, leave it out front."

"Yes, sir."

Then, he opens the vast, mahogany doors and you couldn't help widen your eyes in awe (although it's actually an involuntary action).

There, magnificently stands a beautiful, expensive, Acura (with the silver _A _sign just at the butt of the vehicle) that looks like it hasn't even been released yet, with an orange plate number that seemed to have been customized, as it said: _**STARK 33**_ in black letters. It's low, it's flat, it's wide, and it's fully crimson, which makes it look absolutely eye-catching. It only has two, costly leather seats – one for the driver, and the other for the passenger. It doesn't have a roof, but, it seems it is merely folded at the back of the car – it'll only be raised when told to – that's why it only has one, long window, which has a bit of a dark tint that signals that it has some night-vision lenses attached to it already. By how it shines slightly dimly at the sunlight, you realize that it's made of a foreign element, and, of course, it is bullet-proof, as it has metal skin. For now, that's the car's special features you've spotted, but, you know, with Tony Stark, there are much more and much better.

"Like what you see, kid?"

Your gaze has fallen on your uncle, who's grinning smugly at you with his shades on, as he's already seated in the car.

You nod, "Yeah." Then, you frown, "but, _you_ came in the picture."

Although he's wearing sunglasses and you can't exactly see his eyes, you know he's glaring. "Get in the car," and that proves your assumption.

You grin at him with false innocence, before going to the other side of the car and jumping on the passenger's seat, which causes the car to sway slightly.

"Watch it!" Tony exclaims angrily.

"Sorry," you shrug unsympathetically. "I can't really watch where my butt goes."

He grunts as he begins to drive the car out of the driveway, "Yeah, it isn't a surprise you have no love life."

You just roll your eyes. Who needs a love life when you're a God-gifted genius?

You look away from him and feel the wind driving fast through your hair, whipping and slapping your face, as you watch the buildings, and people pass by in a blur. Then, something hits your eye and drops on your mouth, causing you to spit it out. With the awful after taste, you realize it was actually a fly. You gag a bit.

You hear laughter and turn around to see your uncle not bothering to even hide it beneath your deadly glare.

You're about to flip the finger at him, but the car suddenly speeds up, bringing more wind, causing you to look down to prevent another fly. You look up to merely see him grinning at you, his surprisingly pearly white teeth shining due to the sun's gaze. With that, you decide not to speak, and only glare.

You had not realized that JARVIS is here until Tony says, grinning, "JARVIS, the roof."

"Yes, sir," you shift your gaze towards where the radio is supposed to be, instead replaced by a small screen, with zigzag lines that seem to move as JARVIS speaks, just below the air conditioner.

Curiously, you look at it, brows knitted, "JARVIS . . . ?"

"Hello, A," you watch the lines jump up and down.

You smile, glad to have a friend around, "Hey, 'didn't know you were here."

"I am practically everywhere."

You chuckle, before realizing how disturbing that actually is, but you ignore that thought and allow the silence to settle back in. So, you listen to the sound of the mechanism behind you as the roof unfolds, appears above you and attaches itself on the window before the two of you.

"Windows, JARVIS," Tony says once he hears the _click_, signalling the process complete.

"On it, sir."

You remove your arm from your door as glass rises from it. With another click, the glass is connected to the roof, and you feel cold air seeping out of the air conditioners, as the car is finally enclosed. You look through the window and notice that you're actually in the city now. Tony's trying to hide himself away from the paparazzi, which is surprising (as he's a man who enjoys attention) and an epic fail, because, seriously, doesn't he remember that his plate number has his surname? You ignore that and wonder why he's trying to conceal himself.

Oh, wait.

He's with you.

Question answered.

You allow yourself to look up at your uncle. You instantly notice that he has taken off his shades and slid them in his pockets. Now, you see his hazel eyes, vividly shinning its intelligence and capability, hidden beneath his thick eyebrows.

You ask the obvious question, "Where are we going?"

"To the other end of the Earth," he replies sarcastically.

You snort, "Yeah and we'll visit Santa Claus."

"You're visiting me?"

"You're _Santa Claus_?"

"I'm Santa Stark."

You roll your eyes – _corny_ – but don't make a comment.

There is silence and Tony has suddenly found himself wondering of your capability, your intelligence; if you truly are more than he thinks you are. _Probably not_, he thinks, but decides to put you in a test – because humiliating people is always fun. "You still believe in that fat old man?" he asks.

You shake your head, "I used to, when I was a child. But, now, of course, I don't. However, I think Santa Claus is vital."

He stares at you with a raised, inquisitive brow, "Elaborate."

You arch your eyebrow, "You sure you want to listen? I don't want to waste my voice with someone who isn't even listening."

"If your explanation is interesting _and_ rational, I might," he nods slightly.

"Well, alright then," you relax your back of the passenger seat, sinking yourself deeper, getting yourself comfortable as you prepare to explain. "Did you believe in him when you were a child?"

"This is really the method you're going to use – the questions-to-prove-point way?"

"Yes, Edward."

He shakes his head, knowing very well this manner of explaining (and ignoring the name). "Of course, I don't," he replies, playing along with it. "The guy isn't real."

"True – do all adults know that?"

"Ninety-six percent, yes – that leaves four who do not; half is autistic, and the other is childish." Translation: _Well, duh. Those who don't are probably autistic – or childish if there's no medical problem_. Because you're sure there are no statistics such as that.

You hum, nodding, "Well, if they know he isn't real, why do they tell the children that he is?"

"How the hell would I know? I don't have any kids."

You slump your shoulders, "Think, Edward; think."

"I only think those that are worth thinking about."

"Wise words from a stupid man – just freaking think."

He sighs loudly, "Whatever, kid. Just get to your frigging point."

You roll your eyes, but you continue, "When Christmas nears, what do you feel?"

He's suddenly silent, as he actually contemplates his answer, "Uh, excitement, I guess."

"Why?"

"Because I was getting gifts."

"Well – sure, okay, maybe those are one of the reasons why – but, in an ordinary kid's point of view, what do you think is the reason why they're excited?"

His eyes look daze – the explanation must be boring him, but, he replies anyway, "For intelligent children – because they're getting gifts – just like me. But, for idiots, most likely because they think a more-or-less-three-hundred-pound, old man, wearing a stretchy, red-and-white suit, named "Santa Claus" – which is a stupid excuse of a name – will travel around the world, driving a slay with flying reindeers, one of which is named "Rudolph" – another stupid excuse of a name – and will visit their house by managing to actually _fit_ in the chimney, sliding through it and arrive at their living room, dropping off the gifts they wanted and leaving the same way, only going up."

"Exactly!" you grin, snapping your fingers, now leaning forward at Tony slightly, surprising him a bit.

He furrows his brows as he moves his head to look at you, "What do you mean?"

"That's the reason why adults tell the kids about Santa Claus – it doesn't matter if he's real or not, it makes them _happy_, appreciative of what they have and grateful for what they receive. _That_ is why Santa Claus is vital." You rest back on your seat, letting the words sink into the silence that comes next.

Tony takes a moment of consideration, merely staring back at the road.

You wonder if he even listened, but, for some reason, you fear his judgment. Although you wouldn't admit it, your uncle intimidates you.

"How'd you know about this?" he asks.

"Bored one winter day, started thinking about it – and before I knew it, I was writing on a piece of paper, rationalizing about Claus; it's just the work of my mind," you reply.

There is silence again.

Your senses are suddenly more observant – you feel sweat beading on your forehead (although it's rather cold), the chilly air the air conditioner is giving out, the vibration and the roaring of the car engine, the scent of men's cologne, the road's zigzag fractures you haven't noticed before, the lines of your leather seat, and the dirt on the car floor.

Then, he's suddenly nodding, making you look up at him. "Fair point, kid," he flashes a grin of approval.

You don't realize you've actually been holding a breath until you exhale in relief through your nostrils silently.

You shrug modestly – or, maybe, not, "I'm a genius."

It is quiet once more as Tony does not respond and only watches the road while he drives. It bothers him how you've managed to rationalize that overweight seal that is an old man. He actually hasn't even thought about it – well, he doesn't really have time, and there are _much _better things to think about (as if he thinks about such things) . . . no, that's not it. What really bothers him is that you're right, and he's wrong – it's not about Santa Claus; it's about what he thought about his [niece/nephew], the reputation you have given him, is wrong. You're right because you've proven what Rhodey had told him: "_[she/he]'s much more than you think [she/he] is_," – which Tony does not believe. He isn't ready to believe it – he's not sure if he will – the proof isn't enough.

But, Tony is positive about one thing: as Rhodey had said, "_You don't know [her/him] at all._"

He starts considering to get to know you more.

As the car turns left, you look up, and notice that you're on a road going towards the Upper New York Bay, which is sparkling vividly as though glitters have been scattered about it; you could see the Liberty Island just several miles away, as the Statue of Liberty stands like a line with a spiky dot on it. This reminds you of something – how had the conversation of Santa Claus arrived?

Oh, yes: _where are we going?_

"So, where are we goin–?" you ask as you stare at your uncle.

The car abruptly turns into another left and you frown at Tony for doing such an unexpected act. However, you stop glaring when you see his eyes as they stare ahead – they're suddenly solemn, and, somehow, shining with closet admiration that doesn't seem so closet. You shift your head, following his gaze, landing on – well, this answers your question – the Avengers Tower, as it stands tall and high, wide and mighty, at the end of the street. Since it used to the Stark Tower, it still has its ultramodern features – the glass windows that wink at you due to the sun's gaze, the too tall height, the too many floors, and the technology doing most of the things. It has Stark written all over it. Yet the boasting and wealthy atmosphere it used to emit is not there – only authority, security, safety, protection and assurance.

As the vehicle approaches, the building looms over it, its vast shadow darkening your surroundings. You've been too busy staring at its beauty that you don't even register your actions as the car stops in front of it, and you automatically step out, while your uncle does the same, telling JARVIS to park inside. The building's beauty is magnificent, overwhelming, and absolutely breathtaking. You don't take credit of your uncle. He probably didn't even design this.

Your reverie is broken with sudden movement at the corner of your eye – you turn to it to see your uncle walking towards the building, as though he's going there alone, because he doesn't even look at you, or gesture for you to follow, but, you do anyway.

You walk towards the Avengers Tower, behind your uncle, wondering why there aren't any paparazzi approaching him – when you see guards roaming around the building – _of course_. So, now, you wonder why you're going here.

You feel mixed emotions: excitement, anxiety, enthusiasm, apprehension, thrill, nervousness. Yet, you manage to go through the security lane that greets you once you enter, rather calmly. And you aren't even asking questions yet.

You look around and register your surroundings – silver, gold, metal, marble, ultramodern, futuristic – the usual Stark design. A silver, wide table stands at the center of the spacious lobby, before a large divider that has a bold, crimson sign that says **THE AVENGERS TOWER**. But the people – everywhere, walking and running, standing and sitting, talking and listening – are wearing inky, tight suits with their identification card pinned on their right breast, which is absolutely weird as you're pretty sure no ordinary person would wear such outfits – well, except for the identification card. These aren't Stark people. But, they are still humans, as they stare at you with confused and puzzling expression, yet, no one approaches.

"Kid, come on!" The familiar voice breaks your reverie as you search for its source, your gaze landing on your uncle as he stands in front of the elevator, which is about to open.

In a hurry, you run towards it as your uncle steps in – the door starts to close and you're dodging people, jumping on obstacles – and it's only like half a feet open when you managed to slide in, standing beside your uncle as you exhale a sigh of relief. As much as you don't like your uncle, you don't want to get lost in this strange maze of a tower.

Then, you take notice of the elevator – slightly wider than the usual kind and cleaner too; it has the hue of silver, shining fairly at the golden lights seeping from the circles inside the ceiling; the control panel with the emergency break and the floor numbers is at the right side of the elevator entrance, and the floor numbers that you realize reaches until a hundred levels, is above it; also, there's a long, silver handle horizontally lining the walls to hold on to if ever something dangerous occurs. Moreover, there's no one around but you and your uncle.

The elevator door closes with a quiet ding, which surprises you a bit. You quietly glower at it before staring up at your uncle, asking another obvious question, "What are we doing here?"

"JARVIS," Tony ignores you completely – and you aren't surprised JARV' is even here.

"Yes, sir?"

"To the level where there are paranoid freaks, please." (He doesn't even bother pressing the buttons – _lazy-ass_.)

_What kind of floor is that? _You wonder.

"Name?"

"The one who made you."

"Sir, this is for surveillance reasons, please, do take it seriously."

Tony sighs in annoyance, "Yeah, fine."

"Name?" JARVIS asks again.

"Does it have to be the full name?"

There's a short pause that, you imagine, must be JARVIS heaving a sigh of exasperation with two fingers rubbing his temple, "Yes, sir."

"Alright – Anthony Stark."

"That is not your full name, sir."

"Yes, it is, JARVIS. It has my first name and my surname."

"You made me, sir; I am very certain that is not your complete name."

Tony silently mutters a curse under his breath, "Anthony . . . Edward . . . Stark."

Your lips form a wide grin in amusement – he was trying to hide his other name.

He glances at you and, although he's wearing his shades again, you know he's glaring, which merely makes your grin wider, but, you do not speak.

The elevator begins to rise gradually. "Your hero name?" JARVIS asks.

"Iron Man."

"See, sir? Is that too hard?" the sarcasm in JARVIS' tone causes you to chuckle quietly.

Tony sighs, "Continue with it, JARVIS."

"Absolutely – please show your Avengers I.D. Card on the screen at the control panel."

Tony obeys (somehow that sentence doesn't fit . . .). From his pocket, he fishes out his Avengers I.D. Card – which is a simple, thin card with Tony's picture (you stifle a laugh) and the hues of gold and red; the crimson color, you notice, seems to be hard plastic covering electronic wires, as it is slightly transparent. He approaches the control panel, and a tiny monitor suddenly appears, with an eye-shaped oblong on top that appears to be moving, emitting a green light as it scans the card which Tony has brought up to its height.

The monitor reveals Tony's I.D. Card – and you're trying your hardest to suppress a cackle. A different, robotic, completely un-JARVIS-like voice abruptly speaks, "Kindly place your whole hand on the screen for scanning." As it does, the scanning eye seems to be examining your uncle's face, as it moves rather rapidly.

Tony complies. He presses his hand on the monitor and a green line scrutinizes it. It stops whn it reaches the other end of the monitor and Tony removes his hand, as the voice speaks again, "You are indeed Anthony Edward Stark, also known as Tony Stark, and Iron Man."

There is a pause, until it breaks it, "Welcome to the Avengers Tower, Sir Stark."

The elevator door dings open and you look up at the floor numbers – you are at the fourth highest floor. Wow – you hadn't notice how fast the elevator moved; your uncle's too amusing to watch.

Tony steps out, you behind him, as he silently registers the familiar milieu – silver and inky-blue, marble and metal – the same setting as in the Helicarrier (Fury has some environmental problems) with the small touch of Stark.

Both of you pass through slightly dim and empty hallways, before finally arriving in front of wide and huge, black double doors. Tony doesn't even hesitate to slam open the doors (he enjoys grand entrances too much), surprising those inside, who're the same as the people at the lobby, only mostly seated and in front of computers – whether holographic or solid. (You spot someone playing Pac Man and you shake your head inwardly in disapproval.)

But, in the lobby, only several were confused of your presence, as they didn't really notice you much – now, _all _of them are confounded. Some even stood to just see you – or, most likely, your uncle.

Gosh, youngsters must rarely go here.

Tony doesn't even look about – he knows this place, he _built_ it (okay, maybe not, but _still_). It's totally similar to the Helicarrier, without much difference – only more railing (because in the Helicarrier, there's almost no such thing as a fence).

The attention is bothersome and uncomfortable, as you feel the hair on your arms stand on its end. You haven't got this much notice ever since you've changed that it has made you slightly shy. Somehow, deep inside, you actually missed this. But that sensation is d_eeee_p inside – forgotten and can no longer be brought up.

Tony walks around, glancing at you across his shoulder from time to time, seeing the concentration given to you. Surprisingly, he's not jealous – he's actually concerned of you (and, perhaps, his reputation, as he can hear some girls whispering to each other that you might be a child of his – which is . . . wrong, just totally, utterly _wrong_).

He understands the feeling of too much attention – although, at first, it feels good and, maybe, a bit awkward, however, in the end, it gets difficult, especially for a child, as children can't handle this much notice yet. It grows too much – and too much of everything is bad (_except for money_, he adds).

So, he slows down slightly and follows your pace, which shocks you slightly. You glance up at him questioningly, but, he doesn't back look down; he merely continues to walk. You wonder what the reason behind this is – but, then, it could only possibly be that he cares.

_Naaah_.

However, you appreciate it.

Both of you arrive at a podium, that can only be climbed by a short stairway. On its center is a chair and a silver table before it, with holographic monitors, standing on top of each other, three ones in a row and in a column, equalling nine (you can't help adding them all) and a woman, with dark hair tied into a small bun, her outfit the same as the others, tight and black – but with her solemn expression, and the atmosphere she emits that has authority all over it, she seems to be in-charge – and dangerous, if going to her bad side.

You couldn't help but gulp.

She glances at Tony and her expression seems to harden (which just shows that Tony has gotten to her bad side), "Good, you've arrived." Her voice is strong, slightly deep, and very humorless that, when spoken a command, it must be followed without question.

Tony nods in greeting (shockingly polite of him), "Hello, Agent Hill."

_Agent Hill_ – astonished, you scan the employees (who really haven't gotten over you) – these people are all _agents_, like _secret agents. _That means this must be some sort of secret organization, working for the government. You've always had suspicions that there are undisclosed associations under the government – but, goodness, you never thought they're actually real – and this has to mean that the Avengers are working for this organization, which denotes that _they're _laboring for the government.

That is just _fucking_ awesome.

But, doesn't your uncle dislike the government?

"Who's [she/he]?" the voice of Agent Hill surprises you, as it breaks you from your trance. You look back at her instinctively – but instincts are bad, because she's staring at you with obvious suspicion. You recall Tony calling these people (you're positive he's indicating them), "paranoid freaks" – that description is actually precise.

"[She/he]'s not my child," Tony immediately says. "But, [she/he]'s my [niece/nephew]."

Hill raises a brow as she moves towards the end of the table, closer to you, "There are still Stark's around?"

Tony frowns, "We aren't extinct, you know – but, yeah," he nods, "that's what I thought too."

You exhale through your nostrils. Annoying uncle he is.

"What's your name, kid?" Hill asks.

You speak your name, stuttering slightly, because you fear you might do something wrong or anything that Agent Hill disapproves of and go at her bad side.

For some reason, the stammering has made Hill's lip form a small smile, which is actually pretty and makes you relax a little more as it lessens her intense atmosphere. She should do that more often – especially how the wrinkles near her cheeks seem unfamiliar with the action.

"Got any nicknames?"

_Why do they always ask that? _"A," you reply, "As in t-the letter A."

She nods, "Interesting name you got there." She stretches her hand, "The name's Maria Hill, but, it's required to call me Agent Hill."

You stretch yours and both of you shake hands, "Nice to meet you, uh, Agent Hill."

She bobs her head in agreement, "You too, A."

She lets go of your hand as she looks up at Tony, "[She/he]'s a humble one."

Tony looks bored, "A rare Stark."

"Indeed," her face suddenly grows serious. "Are you sure about bringing [her/him] in?"

_Bringing _you_ in? What _in_? Where _inside_?_ You look alternately between Hill and Tony, brows furrowed. You realize they've been talking while you were in your reverie.

Tony nods, "I can't leave [her/him] out here."

_What is _that_ supposed to mean?_

Hill bites her lower lip, "I could tell Director–"

_Director who?_

"No, don't," Tony cuts in (which seems to be a bad choice, but Hill doesn't seem fazed by it). "I'll handle it."

_You can't handle anything, _you scowl at him.

"You sure about this, Stark?"

"Why don't you trust me?" Tony even flashes a grin. But, Hill continues to frown. Stark charm doesn't appear to work on her.

"Who _wouldn't_?" she says in disbelief – probably of how Tony doesn't know how stupid he is.

You agree with Hill mentally.

"Alright, I admit it. I'm not the most trustworthy man in the world–"

"That's true," Hill cuts in. You agree once again.

Tony holds up a finger, "Let me finish."

She is silent, which must signify that she _is_ listening.

"I know, I'm not – but, when it comes to _him_–"

_Who's _him _that's scary enough to even worry Agent Hill?_

"I can _totally_ take care of–a bit, er–slightly, uh, make that mostly."

_And enough to make Tony doubt himself about managing this man?_

Hill sighs, "Well, good luck. Just make sure to tell him that I've got nothing to do with this."

"Got that," Tony salutes. "So, where's it held?"

_What _it_?_

Hill nods across her shoulder, gesturing to the double black doors behind her. "They're all in there, waiting for you."

_Who are _they_?_

"Am I late?"

Hill snorts, "You're too late to ask." She spins around and returns to her work.

Tony bobs his head in acknowledgement (probably because he doesn't really care) and turns to look at you.

You stare up by glowering.

"What?" he asks.

"Well, I do have a lot questions. It's a pretty good list. Wanna hear it?"

Tony waves his hand dismissively, "No thanks." He fails to detect your annoyed tone. "But, kid, just do me one favour today, since you'll have to be with me for the next few hours."

"Gee, that sounds fun," _also like hell._

"It isn't, I know. Save the questions for later. Just behave." He's suddenly very serious – and, actually, a bit scary.

You really do not want to obey, but there's this finality in his tone that makes you want not to argue. So, you just sigh and nod reluctantly.

"Good, let's go."

Both of you approach the double black doors.

* * *

**A/N: Aaaaaand, I left ya hanging on the cliff. Because doing that is always fun. But, dang, I placed a lot of useless stuff here. Hope you guys just enjoyed it. (: **

**I honestly wanted to keep on going but it was getting too long, and it's nearly the end of the month, and I have this rule that, at least, I update once in a month, and I really do not want to break that. [I, also, think that, **_**that**_** is a good way to end the chapter, and that I have to watch some Avengers videos so I can remember everyone's voices and try to not make them out of character (sorry if Tony is OOC, though, or Maria Hill).]**

**Actually, I think I might break it this November. There's this international competition called "National Novel Writing Month" ( w w w . nanowrimo . org [remove the spaces] – if you want to join; for adults at the age of eighteen above [or maybe, if you're a kid/teen and you want something challenging, go there]) and I joined their program, "Young Writers Program" ( y w p . nanowrimo . org [remove the spaces] – for the teens/kids at the age of seventeen below). It's required to write at least a thousand words a day, then, by the end of the month, you must have reached your goal of number of words and finished your novel – and the winners' novels will be published into manuscripts or something like that. So, yeah, I really might not update, but, I'm not sure. Maybe, after writing a thousand words, I can write the next chapter. Also, if you guys want to join, go! If you signed up for YWP, I am **_**YvelissaM.**_** (including the period) – you can add me as your buddy or something like that. (:**

**Hey guys, I apologize for updating late. A lot has been going on, although we finally have our two-week-and-two-days break. I mean, the teachers have given us many assignments, including a book report, which forces me to read a book I have no idea about. Anyway, I finally finished the book and am doing the report now – but, I'm nearly done with all of the homework, luckily. **

**Oh, and I went to Hong Kong with my family! Stayed there for three days, in Panda Hotel, rode some awesome trains, and went to Disneyland – all completely unforgettable and tiring. It was my first time though – to have my own passport, to really get inside an airport (LMAO, I always stay outside), ride a plane, to go to a different country, to ride a train (I seriously haven't), to visit Disneyland, and to ride a roller coaster (it will be my last; I did not enjoy it). It was super fun. 3**

**Anyways, I guess, that's all. **

**Read, Enjoy and Review! :D **

**I do not own the characters, or you – just the story.**

– **YbM**


	6. Chapter Six

**Babysat by Uncle Tony:** Chapter Six

* * *

**Summary**: _You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

**A/N: **This is it, my friend. It's been a long time. I apologize for its length (nine pages), foul words and actions, if there is OOCness or mistakes about facts or names and if I have offend you in anything that occurred in your experience of reading this, but, I do hope you are satisfied, and that you enjoyed it, as I have while writing this. Thanks for reading, enjoying and reviewing in advance! (:

I disclaim the characters and you; the story is mine, however.

And since I don't want you to wait anymore, without further ado, here is the sixth chapter!

* * *

**Tony grabs the door knobs** and swings it open widely, entering the room arrogantly and with swagger as you trail timidly and anxiously from behind.

You observe the first things you see: it seems to be a room, neither small nor large, with wallpaper and flooring black as black could be, and a pair of fluorescent lights at the center, lighting up the room slightly, though it remains dim.

"You're late," you hear a deep voice say.

Tony shrugs, "I had errands to run."

Curiously, you step out of the view of your uncle's backside (not a pretty good sight) to see who spoke in such a voice. Instead, you see a large, round table, where five people are sitting with one standing in front of them at the other side of the room.

_The Avengers_, you realize. _I'm at the same room as the fucking Avengers._ You feel excitement and anxiety racing about your veins, about to explode, to see the heroes of the world (with Tony as an exception) personally in one single room, together, with you, inside.

Your attention is taken by that one, who is standing, a bald, dark man, wearing an eye patch, and dressed entirely in black: black trench coat, black pants, black shirt, and black boots. With his one eye, he gives you a piercing look, quite a frightening one; though, you show not the fear. You simply gulp it down. You realize, he must be the _Director_.

"_That's _your errand?" asks another voice. You shift your gaze to the speaker to see one of those who are sitting down: a slender guy raising his brow, a little younger than your uncle, with messy blonde hair and an outfit most of purple. Due to his small smirk, he appears to be a somewhat playful person, while, due to how long his fingers look as he places a hand on the table, he seems to do a certain kind of activity that involves a lot of hands. On his ear, you detect a hearing aid.

A certain hue catches your attention and you shift your gaze slightly. Sitting on another seat beside the purple man is a woman (practically the only female), who has auburn (the color which probably grabbed your attention; you nearly thought it was Aunt Pepper), jaw-length locks and just extremely sexy as she wears a rather fit suit, similar to Agent Hill's (you assume she is an agent as well), though very much more attractive, wrapping around her curves and stomach rather tightly yet she appears to still be breathing. Despite her smoking exterior, she seems like the kind of person better not to be mess with, especially with how her gaze feels dangerous as she looks at you, and gives you a tiny smile; even an adorable one.

Before Tony could reply, the tallest and bulkiest man you have ever seen, wearing what appears to be real metallic armor, abruptly stands and stares at you with childlike, wide, blue eyes; he seems like a tough and brave guy, though, possibly dim-witted. He says – or perhaps 'shouts' as he speaks with such a booming voice (which actually has quite an accent) – "You have an offspring, Shield Brother?" Screw possibly; he _is _stupid.

The purple man bursts into laughter, as the others merely grin and smile – or, for the scary dude, a twitch on the lip. Though, the _Estupido_ appeared to be confused. You flush in embarrassment and slight annoyance.

"Yeah, Tony; the kid looks a lot like you," at the other side of the table, a man whose exterior is similar with _Estupido_, though much kinder and sort of old-fashioned, like his outfit is, with a brown, bomber jacket, as if he's from another era – before you realize it's actually Captain America, without his uniform – says with a small smile, as though unsure if he's going to be pleased (as Tony is being humiliated) or not (due to another possible Tony in the world) about this.

While another man, thin with a seemingly average height and a bit dark, black hair and eyes a beautiful hazel, wearing a pair of eyeglasses and practically the most normal among all of these people, including your uncle, nods in agreement at Captain America's statement. Though, you can't help sense a certain, not-so-good vibe emitting behind his normal and nice exterior.

You frown at the same time your uncle does, though both of you don't notice, which brings back the laughter within the room. There's a _bang _as the door behind you shuts and locks itself. However, no one pays any attention to it.

Tony sighs through his nostrils in exasperation as he places two fingers on his temples, rubbing it gently. He says sarcastically, "It's nice to see you too, Thor," oh, so, _Estupido _is Thor – the god of lightning or something you heard; the god returns to his seat. "And no, actually; the kid's not mine. [She/he]'s my [niece/nephew]."

_And will stay that way_, you think.

The woman raises a brow, "There's another Stark?"

Tony snorts, "You'd think I'd be happy about it."

"Yeah, we do," nods the most normal man.

"Well, we sure aren't delighted about it," the purple man shrugs, though his cheeky grinning contradicts his statement.

"Including me," the scary dude suddenly and slowly speaks, grabbing all the attention. "Stark, what's the kid for?" he asks gravely, casting a quick glance at you.

Tony heaves a sigh – you're surprised he isn't even scared, although he was unsure about this dude a few minutes ago – "Unfortunately, I'm the babysitter."

_It is, indeed, unfortunate_, you mentally agree. You look down on your feet, subconsciously sighing in dismay.

More laughs (the loudest is Thor's) – even the scary dude allows himself to smirk slightly.

"The kid's parents went away for two weeks, all right?" Tony explains immediately, growing annoyed. "Pepper and Happy aren't around and frankly, JARVIS is a computer and doesn't do diapers, so, I'm pretty much stuck here."

You glare at him, "I'm _seventeen_, for Pete's sake." You shake your head in disapproval, "You're like my mother."

You notice the room has unexpectedly silenced as you suddenly speak, which you couldn't help doing, of course, when Tony is insulting you. Everyone stares at you with amusing and surprised expressions, making you feel what you felt before, having all the attention: uncomfortable.

The woman smirks at Tony, "[She/he] hates you." She slowly nods in approval, "We have something in common." The purple man beside her grins in agreement.

You are happy to be at her good side.

"The feeling's mutual," Tony simply states.

"Wow," breathes Captain America, half-smiling. "You've turned into a mother after, what, just four days, Stark? I'm proud of you." Funny thing is, he actually sounded sincere.

Before Tony could respond, the purple man suddenly sniffs, wiping his eye as though he's about to cry, though, he's grinning, "Our little Stark-warky is growing up."

Tony gives him the finger, making him burst into laughter once more, as well as the others. You believe neither your mother nor Aunt Pepper will be happy to hear about that.

"The Avengers Tower isn't a playhouse, Stark," the scary dude says seriously with a hint of annoyance.

"Let's have a recap, shall we?" Tony clasps his hands, heaving a soft sigh through his nostrils. "Who owns this building?" he raises a brow.

The scary dude exhales in utter exasperation loudly, "I own the floor. And I'm sure as hell _this _isn't a playground."

You feel aggravation rising, heating you up, as you run a hand on your face in frustration. You really want to speak for yourself. But Tony replies too quickly for you to butt in.

"I pay for the fucking electric and water bills. Do you _know_ how much those cost?"

"I thought Pepper's doing the bills," the most normal man says, crossing his arms.

"Still; it's _my _money."

"Why can't just you leave [her/him] outside?" asks the scary dude, gesturing the door.

Tony turns to him and raises a brow, "You sure you want a Stark alone and without adult supervision?"

You're pretty sure if you're going to stay out, you probably wouldn't do anything much besides talking and interviewing other agents or Agent Hill. Or perhaps roam around in curiosity.

Yeah, that actually might not be a good idea.

"There are agents out there, including one of the best," you suppose the scary dude is indicating Agent Hill.

Tony fakes a cough, "Excuse me, Fury, but did you not hear me clearly? I said _Stark_."

_Director Fury_; you inwardly nod, _fits the guy: frightening, dangerous and probably filled with fury_. You suppose it's better to stay at his good side as well; the atmosphere he emits is much more intense than Agent Hill's.

Surprisingly, this shuts Director Fury up. He stares at Tony, eyes apparently thinking deeply, considering the pros and the cons of having a Stark outside, where there are hundreds of well-trained agents, or inside, where there is the best world-saving team a secret organization could ever have.

"Stark, we're going to talk about something important here," he says as grave and silent as a silent grave could be.

This shuts everything up, the atmosphere in the room turning grim; everyone frowning in displeasure, especially Thor, you notice. Even your uncle pauses.

"It's all right, Fury," Tony persists, waving a dismissive hand. "This kid will behave. I just don't trust [her/him] out of my supervision." As if he supervises you in the mansion.

Director Fury raises a brow, "Does [she/he] hold the blood of the Starks?"

Tony nods, slightly confused, "Yea–"

"Then, the child will not behave."

Suddenly, behind you and your uncle, there's a knock. Everyone, including you, turn their gazes to its source, the door.

Director Fury simply nods, saying through the silence, "Get in." You squint at him, spotting a small, wireless, black, Bluetooth earphone enfolding the back of only one ear of his, the kind rich people use for their calls; like, during those times when you see someone speaking but they seem to not be speaking with anyone because they're not holding any phone, until you spot this kind of thing on their ear; quite a strange experience. Though, you wonder if Director Fury is a rich guy. You ponder his salary.

The right wing of the door suddenly swings open, as Agent Hill enters; carrying what seems to be a tiny remote, disrupting your thoughts. You glance at her ear and see the same thing. Perhaps it's a perk for working in a secret organization.

She doesn't even greet and simply approaches the director, the door _bang_ing shut, the sound echoing loudly throughout the room. You notice the purple man wince and adjust the volume of his hearing aid.

Before she speaks, she scans the room and appears to be rather confused. "Hasn't the meeting started?" she inquires, looking at Director Fury.

He shakes his head, "The meeting can't start, because, obviously, there is a," he gestures you, as he stands straight to face Agent Hill, "child."

You roughly slip a hand in your pocket, growing pissed at each comment of you being considered a child. You decide this is the moment for you to speak; you open your mouth to do so, but–

"A's seventeen," Agent Hill suddenly says, furrowing her brows in perplexity.

Everyone, excluding you, Tony and Hill, raises a brow inquiringly and in slight surprise, even Director Fury. A must really be an extraordinary nickname.

"A?" speaks up Thor, whose tone has so much confusion and shock, even an idiot could probably – _probably _– detect it.

"Yeah, A," the agent pauses. "Hasn't [she/he] introduced [her/his]self?"

Everyone's gazes turns to you. Your aggravation vanishes instantly and that uncomfortable sensation returns, as you subconsciously rub the back of your neck, looking away from them.

You nod, stating your full name, before saying, "But you could really just call me A."

"As in," the purple man surprisingly appears rather serious, "the letter _A_?"

"Like the beginning of the alphabet?" Captain America adds, looking at you bemused.

"Like the A in apple?" the most normal man asks, his brows furrowed, almost similarly like Tony when he is thinking hard or perplexed by a certain formula, which you notice he does when you state something quite baffling during those rare times when you actually eat together.

"Like the A at the end of Natasha?" the purple man adds more. The woman beside him hits him hard on his arm using her elbow, in such a speed that you had to observe intently to have noticed it. Her name must be Natasha, you realize.

You sigh through your nostrils in exasperation, "Yes, yes, yes, and yes." You look at the most normal man and you see a twitch at the edge of his lip, turning into a tiny, amused smile.

"That is quite an unusual pet name," Thor comments, relaxing and leaning against the back of his seat. You wonder if that chair is strong enough to carry the amount of muscle that guy has. And you don't like the term 'pet name' for 'nickname.' It makes you feel like a dog.

Captain America nods in agreement, still baffled, "Yeah." He looks up at you and grins widely, exposing his pearly-white teeth that could certainly make ladies faint on the spot.

"Sir, you can trust [her/him]," Agent Hill says with absolute sincerity.

Director Fury glances at her, "What made you say that, Agent?"

Agent Hill shifts her gaze at you (is that a _smile_?), "As you can see, Sir, [she/he] is entirely different from Stark."

Surprisingly, Fury is silenced. _Silence means yes_, you think and you're glad for it.

The others nod in agreement, some smiling, though, they don't speak their thoughts. However, Tony doesn't seem to be happy with Agent Hill's statement, and he, astonishingly, doesn't convey whatever he's thinking.

"All right," finally, he agrees. "Just make sure whatever the kid hears in this meeting will be kept confidential."

You nod, "I will, Sir," wow, how respectful of you, "I have my iPod, I can turn the volume high so I wouldn't hear anything, if you want–"

The purple man immediately begins shaking his head, "No, don't. It'll affect my hearing." He gestures at his hearing aid.

"Oh, well . . ." you trail off, not knowing what to do. You look at the director.

He nods, "Just keep it in."

You simply nod as a response. You and your uncle begin to take your seats, at the other end of the circular table, filling the last of the seats.

Suddenly, the light in the room dims slightly, as the atmosphere shifts as well. You glance at Agent Hill, whose thumb is on a certain button of the remote. You assume she has pressed it.

Director Fury's face appears to have turned much scarier; he leans forward, placing both of his hands on the table, scanning every one of you. Then, he actually smiles, though, without much humor, "It's been a long time, Avengers."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Babysat by Uncle Tony**: Chapter Seven

* * *

**Summary**: _You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

_**[EDITED (2/27/13): Yeah, I added some more stuff. It's a bit important, so, to those who've read this already, you should most likely read it again; thank you! (:]**_

**Sorry for the long wait! Since, in my country, the school year is ending, I've been pretty busy – especially with my novel, which I am still working on.**

**But, anyway, if there is anything wrong in this chapter, please say so. I apologize about that, and whether there's OOCness and such, as well as its length. Thank you in advance for reading, enjoying and reviewing!**

**I disclaim the characters and you; the story is with me, though.**

**Enjoy the meeting with the Avengers. ;)**

* * *

_Director Fury's face appears to have turned much scarier; he leans forward, placing both of his hands on the table, scanning every one of you. Then, he actually smiles, though, without much humor, "It's been a long time, Avengers."_

* * *

You gulp in uneasiness. Although he's smiling, it isn't exactly a pretty sight to behold.

"You missed us, Fury?" Tony teases beside you.

You roll your eyes. You can't believe he still has the guts to do that, especially in such a serious atmosphere.

The director raises a brow at him, "Believe it or not, Stark, but, I'm not the one who called the meeting."

Tony's response is a confused expression.

"It's our little friend from somewhere else here," he gestures Thor, who surprisingly looks rather grave. "He just arrived – a few hours ago. He approached Miss Foster first before he came to me, demanding a meeting be arranged immediately with all of you. And, knowing the condition of their rainbow bridge, we're well aware that he wouldn't come here, unless something's up."

He leans closer and pronounces every word slowly, scanning all of you with his one eye, "And something _is _up." He pauses, letting that sink in.

He says it so gravely that you actually feel your hands trembling slightly in fear. You ball them into fists for it to stop and, fortunately, it lessens.

You look at the others, and they're all staring at him, unfazed, but, prepared for whatever dares attack their home planet, not a hint of fear – only a tiny clue of apprehension. Even Tony – and you don't want to be the only scared one here.

So, you wear the same face and look up, only to meet Fury's eyes, taking you aback a bit, before he suddenly straightens and nods at Thor, who returns the gesture and stands, facing his comrades, while Fury sits down – you realize that there's actually a chair behind him.

The attention shifts to Thor, who breathes in air before his booming voice bounces about the room, "My cohorts, I am delighted to return here – I have missed your homeland greatly – and I very much prefer to have come here as a simple visit, however, as Director Fury had said, I come with dire news." He pauses, licking his lips nervously as he looks up at everyone, his eyes unhappy, yet, his voice powerful and strong, "Two days ago, my brother–adopted brother–" he adds immediately, "–has, unfortunately, escaped."

The tension and silence in the room has increased significantly that no one seems to be breathing, all in great shock (except for Director Fury, who seems to know the dreadful news already) – including you, because, although you don't know who Thor's adopted brother is, you have a good idea who.

Before the questions come exploding, Thor raises his hand, shutting them all up. "How he has managed to escape the security enchantments casted all about his enclosure, it was done by mere manipulation to the sentries to let him out, though, we know not how he has done _that_, as the All-Father has stripped his powers off of him. I have seen it myself."

You notice your uncle squirm a bit beside, a hand on his lips as he swallows back his laughter. You roll your eyes at his immaturity.

"With other witnesses as well," Thor continues, "We've only found out of his escape through a loyal comrade of mine and we've tried to interrogate the sentries, but, alas, they do not recall a thing. We really . . . have no idea how it was all done." He pauses to scan everyone, "As the All-Father, himself, has insisted on sending me here, although we are unsure of his whereabouts, as well as his intentions, we suspect that," Thor breathes for a moment, "Loki has returned here, to replay our previous battle, and to rule over your kind once more."

There is silence as that sinks in.

"The son of a bitch doesn't know how to give up," Tony says, standing up suddenly, throwing his hands in the air, seemingly in shock. He looks at Thor momentarily, "No offense to your mother, big guy," to which Thor responds with a perplexed expression but waves a dismissive hand. "I've already _threatened _him," Tony says, looking at no one in particular.

"You're not that scary," you tell him.

He ignores you.

"A's right, Stark. You're not that intimidating," agrees Purple Man. "Besides, you _threatened _him with a _drink_."

"Doesn't fucking matter, Barton," Tony shoots a glower at him, as you realize Purple Man's real name. "It's about this demigod's _idiotic_, _delusional_, _senseless _adopted brother." He places his hands on his waist, pushing his dark blue blazer back slightly, as you furrow your brows in confusion; idiotic and senseless are pretty much the same. "Nothing personal, Thor," he says, to which said demigod responds by waving a dismissive hand again.

Fury, who has stood up himself, speaks, "Stark, sit down."

"I'm not sitting down, Fury. I am goddamn furious. How _stupid _is the guy to try to subjugate us _again_, knowing we're _here_?" Tony says, his brows furrowed and actually annoyed.

"_Sit_. The _fuck_. _Down_."

"I am _not_–"

"Stark," Captain America speaks in a warning tone, which probably says, _don't_.

Tony takes a second before he, surprisingly, obeys. God, he's such a child. His right leg, you notice, is joggling anxiously. You wonder if he does that every time he's worried.

You return your gaze at the table to see that Thor has sat down as well, passing down the attention to the standing director, who merely scans the table, not speaking. There is movement beside him and you see Agent Hill shifting her weight to her left leg uneasily. If this is making her feel unease, this is really, really getting serious.

Suddenly, the Most Normal Man shyly lifts a hand. You and everyone else looks at him, slightly surprised.

"What is it, Dr. Banner?" Fury asks as you realize his true name.

"Just a question, for Thor," he replies, his voice husky and soft. It dawns on you that this is actually the first time he's spoken.

"Go ahead," nods Fury in approval.

"Uh, Thor," he says as he scoots forward on his seat, leaning on the table, "Is there anything significant or strange that happened before Loki's escape?"

Everybody frowns in confusion. But, Thor answers anyway, "Well, several days afore that, a precious staff was stolen from one of our museums. It was quite noteworthy in our history, though, today, it has no worth and use. It is still being investigated. Why?"

"Yeah," Barton agrees. "How is that related to this?"

"Well," Dr. Banner clears his throat, "Don't you think it's weird that Loki chose to escape _now_? I mean, why not yesterday or last year, especially knowing the fact that he can easily manipulate the guards to unlock his cage and release him?"

Tony slowly nods in agreement, "Like he was waiting something to happen before he finally left."

"Yeah," Dr. Banner concurs. "Which could possibly that robbery."

"Which means he has someone helping him," you suddenly join in and it sort of surprises everyone, including you. You didn't really mean to.

"Right, but, how could he have made contact with anyone? He's locked in," Captain America speaks.

"We allow our prisoners to speak to their relatives or love ones once a month, if they have any," Thor says. "Although, for Loki, it is changed into once every three months."

"But, did he even speak to anyone?" asks Natasha.

Thor shrugs, "I'm afraid I know not of his contacts. We pay not much attention to it. However, I do visit him occasionally, though, he tells me nothing."

"How is he, anyway?" inquires Tony.

"Why do you ask?" Barton lifts a brow at him.

He shrugs, "The man could have changed. Though, I highly doubt it."

"Why bother asking, then?" you look at him incredulously.

"Imprisonment can change people, kid," he shifts his gaze at you. "Believe me, I know." A glint of sadness and anger flickers in his eye.

You frown, wondering if there's something in your uncle's past that you don't know about. You remember several years ago about his disappearing momentarily, but, it didn't seem to matter. This rouses your curiosity about him slightly.

"So, Thor?" Tony looks up at said demigod. "Has the bastard changed or not?"

Thor seems to hesitate, before he shakes his head, "Unfortunately, he has not. If anything, he's gotten much more . . . vengeful, unforgiving."

"Hm," Tony doesn't sound surprised. "Which means that this isn't about that imaginary throne anymore. It's about us and revenge."

"He's going to kill us," concludes Natasha.

You scan their faces. No one seems scared whatsoever; if anything, they seem much apprehended.

Tony nods, "Damn right. He's going to come with a plan that involves us personally."

"The kind of plan that'll greatly affect us," Dr. Banner says.

Captain America agrees, "He'll be really poking our soft spots."

"He'll be poking _hard_," adds Tony.

"But, how could he do that? I mean, I don't think he knows you guys much," you join in. No one seems surprised now.

Thor sighs heavily, "He has his ways, A." And leaves it at that.

You frown, confused. This Loki dude must be some sort of genius – even smarter than Tony or Dr. Banner combined.

Then there is silence.

Fury suddenly nods, seemingly in approval, glad that the team is working together, though he shows no emotions. "This guessing game isn't going to help us at all, but, I'll be keeping it in mind," he says, casting a side way glance at Agent Hill, who nods, telling him she's collected the information.

"Now," finally, he speaks louder and clearer, bouncing about the room. "Just for you to know, I'm not happy about this, especially at the fact that we don't have much facts about Loki's location and objectives. So, while we're still presuming, you better keep your guards high, yourself alert, your eyes peeled, whilst keeping this among yourselves." He glances at you, and you subconsciously gulp. "Don't even dare mention it to the public," he glues his gaze at Tony, who shifts uncomfortably to one side of his seat. "Or any of your co-workers," he looks at the agents. "Or your loved ones," he glances at Thor. "Or even _think _about it," he slides his gaze to Captain America and Dr. Banner. "If you're going to talk about it, we talk about here and here only. Got that?"

Everyone nods, including you, as a response.

"Got that, JARVIS?" he doesn't even look away from all of you.

"Yes, sir," replies the artificially intelligent computer, without even a stutter of fear, and actually still has the guts to speak. You wish you're an A.I. right now.

"But, consider this a warning," he pauses, meeting everybody's gazes, even Agent Hill's, his stare intimidating and frightening. He leans forward, "Keep your mouths shut – or I'm removing it," he threatens in a whisper, his eye included.

He may have meant that for everybody, but you're pretty sure it's mostly for you.

Because he's looking at you right now. (Damn untrustworthy Stark bloodline.)

And everyone knows he's not kidding.

"Dismissed."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Babysat by Uncle Tony: **Chapter Eight

* * *

_**Summary**__: You permitted your parents to have a two-week vacation in L.A; even though you're seventeen, they want you babysat, and there's no one else to take care of you, but, your least favourite uncle. What silly or maybe even risky adventures will await you at his grand, mahogany doors?_

* * *

"_Dismissed."_

* * *

You're the first to exit the room and the air outside of that damn cramped room is the best gift nature has ever given you.

You silently breathe it all in greedily, as you decide to stand beside Agent Hill's desk, a hand on it, waiting for your uncle.

Tapping your fingers on the table softly, you glance at your hand and notice that it is actually trembling, though not easily detectable, but, it could be perceived once it is seen. And you remember Director Fury's gaze on you. You shiver, feeling a chilling sensation sliding down your spine. You wonder if you looked like you just shit your pants. Or if you've shit your pants already.

Then, you sense a presence beside you. You look up to see your uncle, who seems rather jittery and very, very alert – until he shifts his gaze at you and suddenly grins. Now, he appears to be his usual jerk self.

"You okay, kid?" he asks, "Because you looked like you just dumped on your pants."

Well, your wondering has been confirmed. Though, you're much certain now that you didn't shit your pants, and very sure that he only asked that to insult you. He wouldn't care anyway. You glare at him, "I'm fine. That just wasn't my best experience."

He shrugs a shoulder, slipping a hand in his pocket, "Well, I could only agree with that. He stares at you like he's the tiger and you're the deer."

You could merely nod in agreement. Then, suddenly, there's a sudden growl in your stomach that almost makes you think a tiger has appeared. You frown, placing a hand on your belly, "What time is it?"

He glances at his expensive wristwatch, "Half past twelve."

You look up at him, surprised, "We've been in there for _three_ _hours?_"

Tony heaves a sigh through his nostrils, "Time's fast when you're shitting your pants."

You ignore most of his statement. You look up at him, "I'm hungry, Edward."

He looks down at you with a raised brow, "And what am I supposed to do?"

"You're the babysitter-turned-mother here," you tell him. "Feed me."

Before Tony could reply, someone else seemingly cheery does, "Join us, then!"

You shift your gaze to the source of the sound to see Agent Barton sitting on the railing of the pavilion, beaming. You wonder how he got there without your notice – and how he could balance himself to sit that way.

Tony frowns at him, "What?"

"Rogers was inviting us all for lunch," states Agent Natasha, who has come into your vision as she stands beside Agent Barton, arms folded. "Wanting to catch up; A could come."

Tony frowns deeper, "Why the hell would you let the kid come?"

"Well, why not?" Captain America appears, leaning on the railing near Agent Barton.

God, why do these people keep appearing suddenly?

"Yeah," chimes in Dr. Banner, who suddenly emerges beside your uncle. "I'm cooking anyway. No explosions or large infernos involved."

You tilt your head at the side, _why would there by explosions and large infernos?_

Tony merely sighs.

"Come on, Stark. We all need to catch up," speaks Captain America, standing straight, tucking a hand in his bomber jacket. "And I think we don't mind getting to know A in the process."

Everyone actually nods in agreement.

Well, aren't _you_ flattered?

You look up at your uncle and smile at him, almost like you're asking for his permission. _Almost_.

Tony rubs the back of his neck, exasperated. Then, he drops his shoulders, sighing in defeat. He looks like he's glaring at all of you, though, you're pretty sure he isn't, especially when you note a smile trying to fight with his frown. You have a feeling he actually wants to have a lunch with his teammates, "As long as you keep quiet, 'kay, kid?"

You nod immediately and you're about to smile when all of a sudden, a heavy hand drops on your head. You actually feel yourself shrinking with all its pressure and weight. You assume it is Thor's.

"Today, we shall feast!" his booming voice merrily announces.

And you could almost do the same thing, unable to believe the fact that you're going to eat lunch with the _Avengers_, and they even want to get to know _you_ and you could actually get to know _them_.

Feeling the excited adrenaline pumping your veins, you smile, uncaring of what the other agents, even Agent Hill and Director Fury, are thinking about how stupid all of you probably look like right now, forgetting the current situation that can harm the Earth, the people, the team and, especially, you.

* * *

Together, all of you approach the elevator, once hurriedly exiting _that_ place.

Being a child (you won't admit you are), you press the _up _button immediately, while behind you, the team is chatting and laughing already.

You step aside and watch the scene before you – Captain America, whose surname you've realized is Rogers, is talking to the whole group, seemingly sharing a short story, and everyone's actually listening, even your uncle. In between some parts, Barton would laugh, Tony would insert a sarcastic comment, Dr. Banner would say something factual, and Thor would share something short. Natasha would simply say nothing, only wearing a tiny hint of a smile.

Though they don't show it much, you know, inside, they're jumping in excitement and delight, glad to be together again. Well, you suppose, after everything they've been through and the years that has passed, they certainly would feel this way, being friends and all. Even if they won't admit they are.

You let yourself smile at that thought. It's a nice feeling to simply watch good things happen.

Suddenly, the elevator beside you _ding_sopen, and the doors separated as the team and you step aside to let whoever inside through.

You look up to see a bald man, with white hair growing only at the side of his head, creases of exhaustion on his forehead, eyes slightly red seemingly from lack of sleep, wearing a chequered button-down, tucked inside his black pants with matching brown belt and shoes, carrying a hazel folder filled with unorganized pieces of paper.

He glances at the team and you, a kind smile appearing on his features. "Well, it's nice to see you all together again," he says, his voice rough. As he hears it, he clears his throat.

Captain America nods at him with a small smile, "It's good to see you too, Dr. Selvig. Been working?"

You look at him curiously, as you realize his real name. He seems to be a foreigner, not exactly born in America, but, certainly raised here. You spot his I.D., and see that he works in one of Stark's laboratories a few floors down. You assume he's a scientist.

He nods in reply as he steps out of the elevator, the doors still open, "And not talking _all_ night. The director got me busy." His voice isn't that rough now, only slightly.

Thor suddenly appears beside him, grinning, and takes his hand, shaking it vigorously, "Erik, my good friend! How are you?"

At this, Dr. Selvig's face brightens slightly, although a bit shaken with the handshake, "Ah, Thor, I'm good; I'm good, thanks. You?"

"I am well, my friend, especially at present, as I am surrounded by my close, Midgardian comrades," he gestures at the team, as he lets go of Dr. Selvig's hand.

You look at him, frowning, _Midgardian_?

"However, my dear companion," gulps Thor, "a lot has been . . . occurring."

The scientist sighs, "That must be why Fury called me. Speaking of which, I need to go." He nods politely at all, smiling courteously. However, his gaze falls on you and he stops. Confused, he asks, "Did Fury allow [her/him]?"

"With my skills of persuasion, he did," Tony nods proudly.

Along with Agents Barton and Natasha, you snort at your uncle's statement before introducing yourself, stating your surname quietly. "A for short," you add.

Dr. Selvig appears quite appalled, "Wow, another Stark." (You see the others nod in agreement.) He looks at Tony with an inquisitive brow, "Your child?"

Your uncle heaves a sigh of exasperation as he shakes his head, "No. The kid's my [niece/nephew]. It's a long story," he waves his hand dismissively.

The scientist nods slowly, "Whatever you say, Stark." He doesn't seem to trust him that much, "But, dang, [she/he] looks a lot like you."

You scoff at the same time your uncles does.

Dr. Selvig grins at the synchronized action and fixes his gaze on you, "Well, I'm Dr. Erik Selvig," he reaches his hand out for you to shake, which you do, "Nice to meet you."

You nod in agreement as both of you let go, "Same here."

"Anyway," he begins to walk away, "it's wonderful to see you all again, but, unfortunately, I have to go," he waves a small wave of goodbye, as everyone starts to enter the elevator. (You wonder how the elevator has stayed open for such a lengthy period of time.)

However, before he does, Tony pats him on the shoulder, "Lower down the coffee, professor."

But he only shakes his head.

Then the door closes, as Agent Barton presses the highest level of the building. And, with the Avengers, you begin to rise, as you wonder what Dr. Selvig's job is exactly.

* * *

Finally, the elevator halts and the chatter within it pauses as everyone watches its doors slowly open to reveal an interior very different from Fury's floor and, one by one, everybody leaves the elevator, approaching the lounge, as you follow the team, scanning your surroundings, the lights turning on instantly as they step into the level.

"Welcome back, team," you hear JARVIS say, as they reply back cheerfully.

While the others seem to be either metal or some sort of strong wood, the walls facing the city are all tinted glass, not allowing the sunlight's warmth to get inside, exposing a beautiful sight of central New York – tall buildings standing beside the tallest of all, specks of people bustling hastily below, boxes that are vehicles driving about hurriedly – as well as a pleasant view of nature – the sky cloudless and a bright cerulean, the sun high, its gaze sparkling New York Harbor, and the Statue of Liberty, a standing stick with a spiky hand holding a tinier stick several miles from the Tower. The ceiling is slightly low, its appearance the same as your uncle's mansion; the floor is mostly a dark blue carpet, but, at some parts, it turns into slick marble.

The whole level is air-conditioned, spacious and wide, like a one-story home, with the friendly living room to welcome you from the elevator, and after a wide hallway at the left, the kitchen and the dining room, separated by an opaque glass barrier, where there is a long, polished, wooden table and eight matching chairs, a chandelier above, brightly illuminating the area. (You manage to take a peek as Dr. Banner makes his way there to cook.) There are more hallways, probably leading to the team's quarters, training areas, bathrooms and other probably not-so-necessary rooms.

However, most of the furniture still appears to be newly bought – some even have plastic wrapping around them. Although they don't seem to be that dusty, you could tell it's not been used for some time.

All in all, it's rather simple but contemporary, with a touch of Stark. It's the kind of place where you'll easily warm up to, but, unfortunately, its habitants are famous people with extraordinary abilities, who have a desire to become acquainted with you – perhaps even befriend you, and this makes you quite uncomfortable and anxious and, at the same time, thrilled and eager.

You slowly walk behind the team, as they choose their spots on the couches in the living room, the enormous, flat-screen television hanging onto a glass wall switched on, with a low coffee table at the center of it all, where your uncle has placed his feet, as he sits at center of the couch, with Thor at his right, leaving a space at the left. Captain America sits on a one-person couch at the right, while the agents sit at a lovers' couch opposite him. You subconsciously decide to sit on the couch's armrest, some space from your uncle.

As they chatter, Thor's booming laughter surprising you at times, you look up at the television, where a game of football is on. You aren't really aware of the battling teams and you aren't that interested, but, you watch it anyway, out of curiosity. You glance at Agent Barton, who seems to be the only viewer of it, while speaking to Agent Natasha.

Growing bored, you slip your hand at your pocket – only to feel a thin, light box that is your iPod, with its earphones. Glad to find some entertainment, you take it out, wear the earphones, press play and realize your favourite song is playing before slipping it back into your pocket, the music blocking the sounds of the team's merry prattle.

You look around the walls to see some paintings, artwork you don't understand much, though, you appreciate its beauty, and several interesting sculptures at some parts of the area, which you assume Tony, himself, has chosen, seeing that they have some R-rated humour behind them. And there's actually a fireplace just beside the television, though, not the classic, homey kind; the expensive kind made from Stark technology – where it converts the smoke into oxygen, making it eco-friendly, the one being sold in most furniture and equipment stores. How it could do that exactly, you aren't sure (although you've been trying to figure it out for months; sometimes, you wonder who's smarter in inventing between you and your uncle).

Then, your gaze stops at a photo hanging on the wall next to the hallway leading to the kitchen, taken two years ago, as stated by the date at the side. It appears to be in the middle of central park, with the fountain at the background. To examine it more closely, you subliminally stand and walk towards it.

And there, in all their normal attires with their own styles, smiling like normal people and fooling around like normal friends, are the Avengers.

Starting at the left side is Thor, head thrown back, mouth opened and eyes closed in mid-laugh, an arm on an uncomfortable yet smiling Captain America, without his uniform, staring at the team like a proud father, eyes twinkling in amusement and joy, as he has an arm on an arrogant and sarcastic Tony Stark, who seemed to be in the middle of making a joke with eyebrows raised and sunglasses on, the edge of his lips twitched upward, his arm on a contented Dr. Banner, eyes squinted due to the sunlight, but with evident elation (and as your mind works the reason behind this, you realize that Dr. Banner could be the kind of person who doesn't have much friends and is mostly alone, and, now, in the picture, was extremely delighted at the _fact_ that he actually and finally has some people he could trust, being surrounded by them), as he placed one arm on Agent Barton, who was looking at Tony, mouth opened and smirking like he was replying mockingly at whatever was your uncle's remark, wearing a pair of sunglasses as well, with a secured arm on Agent Natasha's waist, a genuine smile on her features, eyes sparkling in slightly concealed glee, an arm on her fellow agent. You could clearly imagine the scene.

You don't know if it's the photo, or if it's you, but, it seems that the picture is rather colourful, filled with vibrant, jolly hues that suited its exultant atmosphere, and the natural background emphasized this greatly: the clear sky, emerald grasses and leaves, bronzed trees, its shades cool and soothing, the blooming, gaudy flowers, a pair of ravens on the pavement, eating some bread crumbs, the water gracefully sliding down the fountain – all of it beautifully lively and just so . . . _alive_.

It just seems such a personal image that you feel like you're intruding by simply examining it, much less notice it.

And then, you realize that One Republic's _Life in Color _is playing and it greatly fits the picture: _I do my best / to find some kind of glow / I'm giving it some heart and soul / and now, from the darkest grays / the sun bursts, clouds break, yeah, / we see that fire from the streets of Babylon / to the road that we've been on now / the kaleidoscope claims another . . ._ then, the chorus: _well, this is life in color / today feels like no other / from the darkest grays – the sun bursts, clouds break_–

You don't realize you're bobbing your head to the music and tapping your foot, 'til you hear someone shout your name. Puzzled, you turn around, searching for its source, to see your uncle staring at you from the couch, without his sunglasses, leaning forward, in amusement and slight exasperation.

He seems to be saying something, but you couldn't hear it, as you continue to listen to the song: _well, this is life in motion / and just when I could run this race no more _. . .

When he appears to be done, you open your mouth, like _what? _This causes some laughter among the others.

_Sun bursts, clouds break / this is life in color–_

He stands, walks towards you, and rudely removes one of your earphones, causing you to alter your stare into a glower.

He glances at your earphones with a bored expression, "Nice contraption. Windows?"

"It's an iPod, stupid," you take the earpiece from him, glowering, "It's _Apple_."

He snorts, "I know. Do I look like I was serious?"

Deciding not to reply, you roll your eyes as he returns to his seat.

"You know," speaks up Agent Barton as he fixes his position on the lovers' couch to look at you, the others doing the same thing on their seats, "for a Stark, you're actually a bit . . . old-fashioned." For some reason, this perks up the captain.

You frown at him, ignoring your nodding uncle, "The iPod isn't old."

Agent Barton raises a hand, as if saying _relax man_, although you aren't angry or anything (just, maybe, a bit defensive). "Yeah, but, I mean, for a _Stark_. You know your uncle's technology. It's the most advanced today."

"The most advanced," you agree, "and the most expensive; who in the world has the money to buy _his _stuff?"

Agent Barton shrugs a shoulder, except your uncle replies this time, arms spread open, "Uh, me?"

"You can't buy your own things. You made them," you look at him incredulously, "the money will just return to you."

He grins, "Exactly."

"You're a greedy man."

"Agreed," concurs Captain America, with the others nodding as well.

Well, aren't _you _thrilled?

"What – you're taking [her/his] _side_?" Tony stares at them in disbelief, his expression hurt.

"Well," the Captain shrugs a shoulder, "sometimes, you are."

"And it was a joke, man," adds Agent Barton, grinning.

"Wasn't for me," you say and Agent Natasha gives you a tiny smile, as the others laugh, your uncle glaring at you.

"You're an old kid," Tony says.

"Those are contradictory elements," you reply, "and I prefer the term _mature_."

"Ha!" Tony fakes a laugh. "Funny," he deadpans.

"See the immaturity?" you gesture at him, as the others snigger, Thor's laughter bouncing about the room.

Your uncle only sighs, but, when you look at him, surprisingly, he isn't mad or even annoyed. He's amused, like he's actually . . . having fun. Strange. Was there an alien abduction while you were inspecting the photograph?

"I thought you were a mother, Stark; where's the . . . _ripeness_?"

"That is a horrible choice of a synonym, Barton."

"I believe it's quite an accurate synonym, Iron Brother. Well chosen, Eye of the Hawk."

"_How _is _that_ accurate?" your uncle frowns.

He is, gladly, ignored.

"Thank _you_. At least a prince of Asgard actually appreciates me, rather than the asshole beside him."

You frown thoughtfully, _Asgard?_

"There are two people beside Thor," counters Tony.

"Cap is on a separated seat, asshole."

"Says the asshole."

"From now on, I'm calling you asshole."

"Game on, asshole."

"Please, stop with the profanities," frowns the Captain.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot there are child_ren_ in here."

A throw of a pillow is considered a response. Unfortunately, it is dodged.

"You missed!" merrily announced Tony.

"No shit?" Agent Barton raises a brow. "You should have aimed more to the left."

"Thank you for the advice, Bird."

"Whoa," exclaims Tony. "Cap just went sarcastic on ya, Little Birdie."

Agent Barton playfully glowers at your uncle, "Shut up, asshole."

"Yeah, that's what Cap's calling you: asshole," says Tony, "and that your birdie is little."

Agent Natasha conceals a wide smile.

"What – no!" disagrees the Captain, his face reddening, which you find quite amusing.

"The Eye of the Hawk's . . . _birdie_ is . . . _little_?" a confused Thor innocently asks.

"You have no idea," Tony shakes his head.

"Shut up, asshole."

You start to wonder if you should even be listening to this.

"Asshole?" frowns Thor.

"The swearing!" the Captain scowls.

He is, sadly, disregarded.

"Yes, Thor," nods Tony, "Asshole. It means _Clint-has-a-little-birdie-and-a-big-stick-up-in-hi s-ass_."

"Why the hell can't you shut up?"

"Or it just means that you have a hole in the ass?" suggests Agent Natasha, intentionally confusing Thor, who, indeed, is perplexed.

Thor frowns in puzzlement, "I cannot understand. Do we not all have assholes, then?"

"Unless you don't shit, yes, Thor, we do," sighs Agent Barton.

"And thus, are we not all assholes?"

"Thor, just . . . stop, _please_, with the cursing," the Captain shakes his head.

"Asshole is a _curse_?" a bewildered Thor bawls in horror.

"Nice job, Cap," Tony sarcastically says, to which the Captain responds by opening and closing his mouth, an action that holds quite a large resemblance to a goldfish. Your uncle looks at Thor, "Not a magical curse, don't worry."

"Yeah, I mean, it's just . . . ," Agent Barton trails off. "God, why do I even bother?"

"The better question is: how the hell did we get here?" Agent Natasha corrects.

"Easy. It all started with the asshole beside Thor."

"There is an asshole _beside_ me?!"

Despite the entertainment they're providing you, you tune off their conversation as you look at the picture once more.

Cutting off their conversation, you turn to them and curiously ask, "Who photographed this?" you gesture to the picture.

Apparently, you have cut off an argument between your uncle and Agent Barton, a scene among a panicking Thor, an awkward Captain America who is desperately trying to calm down the demigod, and an entertained, observant Agent Natasha.

Their gazes brush on you before landing on the photograph, silence seeping into the room, their expressions turning into a thoughtful one.

Breaking the silence, your uncle clears his throat as he shifts on his seat, "Yeah, uh, it was by some passerby that we asked."

The captain nods in acknowledgement, "Yeah. It was, I think, the fifth photo. Right?" he raises an uncertain and inquiring brow at the others.

Agent Barton frowns, "No, I think it was the seventh one."

"Didn't we last until twelve photos?" Agent Natasha asks, a reflective and amused face on her features.

Thor grins, "Indeed, we did. Iron Brother, your remarkable kinsman, right here," he pats Tony's back, causing your uncle to wince slightly, "was greatly humorous, we could not stop laughing!" Thor chuckles loudly, the others grinning, at the memory, "We could not stand still! As well as the female Midgardian, who was guffawing uncontrollably!"

You raise a brow, "Female . . . _Midgardian_?"

He nods, "Certainly; your species, the female sex."

You know what he's talking about, of course; you're merely confused of his choice of word. You are about to ask another question, when your uncle raises a hand, like _I'll tell you later_. And, surprisingly, you obey, as you simply nod.

Tony flexes his back slightly, Thor's pat still raw and throbbing, as he sighs heavily through his nostrils, "Yeah, well . . ." his voice suddenly lowers into a lower volume, "I didn't want it to last."

Such a touching comment from an ego-centric uncle. A miraculous event has arrived, and, for the team (including your uncle), the shock is immense, but, quick, turning into appreciation. However, for you, it's a real bombshell. Such a statement doesn't seem to be applicable to your uncle, especially since it's filled with tender sentiments. You don't even know he _has _emotions, let alone these kinds of feelings . . .

You stare at your uncle and perceive his thoughtful expression, as he recalls the reminiscence behind the photograph.

Then, it dawns on you that you don't really know him, and that there could actually be a possibility that he's human, a man with sensitivity and not with indifference, not numb with power and greed. This thing he's doing, you realize, is a facade – an act! There is certainly something beneath it and he only lets those close to him have the ability to see it. Though, you cannot help, but, wonder why he needs to put up such a performance. To keep everything normal? For no one to worry? For the press not to get involved? You shift your weight slightly, your mind racing with possibilities. But, there doesn't seem to be anything that feels . . . right.

Goodness, you haven't felt this curious to know some_one_, not a some_thing_, for some years now. And you never would have guessed it would be the man you've detested for a long time.

You observe him, his loquacious mouth starting to move again, giving Captain America a headache, Thor a "_fact_," Agent Barton an argument, and Agent Natasha something to observe.

Suddenly, the music of your iPod takes your attention and, for a moment, you listen to it, only to realize a different song is playing, a song you've grown tired of. You take out your iPod and press the rewind button, going back to _Life in Color_, wanting to listen to it again.

"Hey," you suddenly hear, and you whip your head to the speaker, only to realize it's actually the Captain. "What are you listening to?"

"A song."

"No shit, Sherlock," Tony scoffs. You resist the urge to flip him the finger.

"What song?" the Captain asks patiently.

"Uh, it's called _Life in Color _by One Republic," you reply.

He nods, "Haven't heard of it."

"Shocker," Tony rolls his eyes. You cast a quick glower at him.

"Yeah, me too," agrees Barton, ignoring your uncle. "And I'm not that outdated."

"Would you like to listen to it?" you ask them.

Captain America shrugs, "Sure. Do I have to wear those . . . earplugs?" he actually looks nervous.

You laugh; a sound that surprises everyone as they haven't heard of it. It's actually quite a pleasant thing to listen to, the kind that makes them want to joke around more to hear it again. You shake your head, "It's called earphones, but, don't worry, you don't need to."

With your iPod in hand, you unplug the earphones, loudening the music, just in time for them to listen to the chorus: _well, this is Life in Color / today feels like no other / the darkest grays – the sun bursts, clouds break . . ._

You look at them, the air in the room paused. Their expressions are unreadable, but, with their silence, you're certain they're listening.

_Well, this is Life in Motion / and just when I could run this race no more / sun bursts, clouds break / this is Life in Color. . ._

You soften the music, plugging back the earphones, total silence wrapping the room, as you raise a brow, "What do you think?"

For some reason, their response to your question is quite long. Despite the chilly air within the room, you feel sweat slide down the back of your neck, going into your shirt, probably creating a disgusting patch at some part of it. You exhale and you catch a certain scent that almost makes you gag, as you realize it's actually your breath. You notice some crumbs of ash around the ground of the fireplace. You gulp and taste a sour flavour, its source unknown. You hear your laboured breathing, so loud and clear that you wonder if they hear it all too. Although you didn't make the song or it doesn't belong to you in any way, you're actually a bit protective of it, as you fear to hear of their opinions.

The Captain is first to speak as he nods in approval. "Finally, something I can call _music_," he flashes that lady-fainting smile and you feel yourself relax slightly.

"It implicates an excellent message. An interesting Midgardian tune. I commend its makers," grins Thor.

"It's catchy," Agent Barton says. "I like it."

Agent Natasha looks at you with a faintly impressed expression, "It's pretty good."

You are really relaxed now, but, your guard is still high; because your uncle hasn't spoken. You stare at him, a look of anticipation on your face, your senses intensifying much, much more, feeling more self-conscious and nervous.

He looks at you and shrugs a shoulder, "Not bad."

You calm down completely as you let yourself smile, "But not good enough?" you say, a small, knowing smile on your lips.

"Precisely," he nods.

You expected that, of course.

"I enjoyed it," says a voice and everyone turns to the speaker to see Dr. Banner, leaning against the wall of the hallway leading to the kitchen, hands in his pockets.

"Thanks," you say to all of them, although you're looking at him.

He shrugs a shoulder as a response, then, turns to the group, "You people left me out."

"Aw, is Banner . . . _y_? Ban_ny_?" Tony looks at no one in particular, his features contorting into a confused expression.

You snort, "Epic fail," making everyone chuckle, even Captain America, who actually understood it.

Tony shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand, a soft tint of pink on his cheeks, which you notice and decide not to announce. "Is lunch ready yet?" Obviously, he's changing the subject.

Dr. Banner nods, "Yep. Everything's set."

All of them, except you and Dr. Banner, start to stand, as you switch off your iPod, pocketing it, alongside its earphones.

"Oh, wait, hold on," Captain America suddenly says, halting everyone. He raises a brow.

Everybody, except you, returns the same action, slightly puzzled.

"Has everyone properly introduced themselves to our guest?" he gestures to you and you feel yourself heat up at the forthcoming attention.

"[She/he] already knows me," Tony replies with a bored face.

"I wish I don't," you counter, causing the others to smile or chortle in agreement. Even though you meant it a little.

Your uncle sighs and looks at you with such a sad look; it almost touches you – _almost_, "Me too, kiddo, me too."

You roll your eyes at him. Though, you can't help wonder if _he _meant that.

The Captain gazes at the others, waiting for their response.

Agent Barton sighs as he approaches you. "Okay, okay, Dad, stop nagging," he mutters and you chuckle.

He extends a hand, "The name's Agent Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye."

"Wow," begins Tony's comment, "I didn't know Agent was part of your name."

He is ignored.

You take and shake it; you're about to introduce yourself when you recall that you already have several hours ago, "Nice to meet you. Do I have to call you Agent Barton or something?"

He shakes his head, letting go of your hand, "Because I like you, you can just call me Clint."

You grin, "I think we'll get along well. Do you mind if I add an Uncle before your name?"

Clint lets out a hearty laugh and shakes his head, beaming, "It fits my name, so, why not?" He pats your shoulder before stepping aside, as Agent Natasha makes her way towards you.

"Agent Natasha Romanoff," she says, lifting a hand, which you take and shake, "Also, Black Widow."

Surprisingly, Tony doesn't make a remark (which only proves that, indeed, it is not a good idea to mess with her).

"Wow," you softly exclaim, eyes widening, "that's acool name." Recalling some study of genealogy you did years ago, you realize her surname doesn't seem American. "Russian origin?" you ask, raising a brow.

She nods.

"Well, pleasure to meet you," you smile.

"Thanks. Same here," she nods. "Since I trust you much more than your uncle," you grin at that, as Uncle Clint comments, "_Which _uncle?" which both of you ignore, "I'm fine with whatever you call me." This seems to have shocked everyone, with you as an exception. You notice the boys' reaction and realize that Agent Natasha must not be the kind of person who lets others give her pet names.

"Aunt Nat?"

"Glad to be part of the family," she says, gently hitting your bicep, before going with Uncle Clint, who's staring at her in disbelief.

You don't notice Thor is beside you, until you feel his _painful_ pat on the back. You almost fall, headfirst, on the floor, and it's because of your well-trained reflexes you're still standing. Now, you know what your uncle and Captain America feels.

You look up at the mammoth-sized demigod (compared to you, honestly, you're pretty much an ant) and grin sheepishly, "Hello, Thor."

He beams, exposing his blindingly white teeth that conflicts with those of Captain America's, "I need not of an introduction. I am quite well-known, even in your own planet, as the Lord of Thunder and the Prince of Asgard."

The others playfully roll their eyes, including you (although you're thinking where in the world Asgard is [though it's most likely not in this world]). Being a prince, he's certainly proud. Nonetheless, your uncle's condition is much worse.

"Yeah," you agree. "I guess not." You sense his fairly heavy hand resting on your shoulder.

"But I would take pleasure of what you are calling Eye of the Hawk and the Dark Queen of the Arachnids," if it's possible, his grin widens.

You raise a brow, "You want me to call you _uncle_?"

"Certainly, child," he nods, "Why not?"

Hearing the word _child_, you frown. "I don't know. I mean, you're . . . a _prince_ and a _lord_," _as you say_, "and I don't think such a title would be worthy of your rank."

He chuckles, "A, be glad that _you_ are worthy of labelling _me_ as a part of your kin and, even better, I am delighted to be included."

Although you're flattered, you aren't exactly sure about this, as he is showing more and more of his self-importance.

And then you recall your uncle.

Never mind.

You shrug a shoulder, "Well, sure."

He grins and pats your back again (you almost fall; but luckily, you immediately catch your balance), before walking away towards the hallway leading to the kitchen and the dining room.

You begin to follow, when you feel a presence beside you. You look up at the tall, blond figure that is Captain America, who you catch cast a sideway glance at you.

"You probably know me already . . ." he says, shrugging modestly.

You smile at his humility, "Being the famous captain of the United States of America, it's hard not to."

"Yeah, well," he clears his throat a bit diffidently; "I'm Steve Rogers." He extends his hand, which you take.

You lift your eyebrows in surprise, "Seriously?" You shake his hand.

A bashful smile stretches on his lips, "Too plain?" Both of you let go.

"What?" you stare at him, slightly taken aback. "No," you shake your head. "I mean, it just fits you a lot."

He licks his bottom lip involuntarily, his timid smile turning into a confident one, "Thank you, A."

You shrug a shoulder, "No prob."

"Are you going to call me uncle?" he asks, raising a brow.

You chuckle, "If you wouldn't mind, sure."

He nods, "I don't, honestly, and, actually, I'd like to."

You lift your own brow inquisitively, "Why's that?"

"I guess, it's just been a long time," he says, looking down at his shoes, "since I've been in a family, you know. I mean, these guys–" he gestures at the people before you: your uncle and Uncle Clint arguing about something, Dr. Banner trying to stop them as the tension between them starts to heighten, Uncle Thor laughing, and Aunt Nat rolling her eyes at their immaturity, yet, continues to watch in amusement, "–they're all I have today."

You gaze at his face. Although he's wearing a smile, his lips stretch sadly into one, as his cerulean eyes twinkle in sorrow and nostalgia. You frown at him sympathetically; being frozen in ice for a long time, waking up in a completely different era from his own, and especially finding out that everyone he's known is dead – god, you can't imagine how painful that is. The only thing he could do now, you realize, is to continue doing his job, serving his country and, maybe, even his planet, and to get use to this period. For some reason, you suddenly have the urge to hug the guy. He just looks like he needs it badly.

But, since that would be incredibly awkward, you just look up at him and beam, "And me?" you raise a brow teasingly.

He shifts his gaze to look at you and grins. He ruffles your hair playfully, "And now, yeah, you too."

Once he places his hand down, you start to fix your hair immediately. "You know, for a hero who has herculean capabilities, a gorgeous exterior and is admired by millions, you're pretty humble," you comment. "No, actually, even if you're not a hero; you're naturally humble, probably even a bit shy."

He couldn't stop the smile as he raises a brow at you, "Gorgeous exterior?"

You shrug, ignoring the heat rising up your neck.

He chuckles, despite his flushing self, "Well, if that was a compliment, then, thank you."

You smile, "It was, Uncle Steve. And it's never a problem."

You resume walking, Uncle Steve's attention moving onto the arguing agent and billionaire. He sighs, "Hold on." He steps forward between them, trying to calm them down – when you sense someone beside you. You look up at the lean figure of Dr. Banner, who stands beside you, a few feet away from the group, not wanting to go even closer, "When those two start to argue, sometimes, you just can't do anything about it."

You nod, "Tony is a stubborn boy."

Dr. Banner stares at you in amusement, "You don't call Tony uncle, don't you?"

You shake your head, "Probably never will."

He nods slowly, as he stretches a hand for you to shake, "I'm Dr. Bruce Banner and the green guy is Hulk."

You smile, as you recall the memory of Hulk, his alternative, smashing and splitting things (and aliens) on some large and long, floating creature the aliens used as their ship a couple of years ago, alongside Uncle Thor, since you've been several blocks away from it – when you feel something familiar with his name. Then, (your eyes widen) you remember his works, his books and some notes specializing in gamma radiation, most of which you've read and are a fan of. You can't believe you've actually missed one of your favourite scientists! Instead of taking his hand, you cover your mouth in surprise, "Oh my god, you mean _the _Dr. Bruce Banner?"

He lowers his hand gradually at his side as he rubs the back of his neck, "Uh, yeah, the one and only."

"Holy crap, I can't believe – oh god – _seriously_?" you look up at him, unable to believe it.

He nods modestly.

You feel yourself grin so widely, "I can't believe it!" You take his hand and shake it rather hard, "I am a _fan _of your work! Your account and rationalization of gamma radiation is much clearer than most of those I've read, yet, you've only been studying it for several years! Good god, you're practically a genius – _and_ a natural writer!"

You don't even notice his cheeks reddening slightly in embarrassment (as he has glanced at the others who are smiling at him proudly [though, they're looking at you a bit strangely], despite their situation just a few minutes ago). He places a hand on top of yours to stop you and, once you do (realizing you've been rambling, flushing in humiliation), he drops said hand. He shakes it courteously, smiling shyly, "Well, thanks."

You beam, "It's my pleasure," you speak in a more civil volume, "And I'm glad to meet you."

He nods, "Glad to meet you to."

Both of you let go, but, you stay by his side as you walk, asking him questions about his work, to which he answers patiently and honestly. Once your hunger for answers about gamma radiation has been fed, you say your thanks, to which he nods.

Then you shift your gaze at the dinner table.

Your eyes widen, "Wow."

* * *

**Yes, you call Clint, Thor and Steve uncle. **

**Yes, you remain to call Bruce, Dr. Banner, in respect, him being one of your favourite scientists (admit it). **

**Yes, surprisingly, you can call Natasha aunt. **

**Yes, Tony/Edward will forever (or maybe not?) be Tony/Edward to you.**

**Yes, I recommend you to listen to One Republic's **_**Life in Color. **_**(If you already know it and have listened to it, you are awesome.)**

**Yes, everyone likes you (and, if you prefer, wants you [in whatever manner you desire]) except your uncle, as usual. **

**Yes, they're probably out of character. (But, don't you like being pleased? [Take that in any way you want.])**

**Yes, I'm thinking of a short story spin-off from that photograph. Except it would only be for girls, sorry. ):**

**And no, I'm not suggesting you should curse. (Thor is not amused.)**

**[There is a continuation after this scene, of course. I had to stop because it was getting unnecessarily long (twenty-three pages). The next chapter will be having your magnificent dinner with the Avengers! With an appearance of a certain character . . . (:]**

**Thanks for reading, enjoying and reviewing!**


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